


The Red Divide

by Minka



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Attempted Sexual Assault, Awesome Howling Commandos, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Gets a Hug, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Character Death, Creepy Brock Rumlow, Era appropriate disregard for PTSD, Graphic Description, Humanized take on The Winter Soldier Program, Illnesses, M/M, New but established relationship, No Hallmark ending but you should expect that from me, Not everyone dies, Pietro and Wanda aren’t related AU, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Russian Bucky Barnes, SOLDIERS IN LOVE, Spetsnaz (Special Forces), Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, World War II, Writer knows scary things, foxhole sex, lots of characters die; this is war, no metal arm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 84,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22256308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minka/pseuds/Minka
Summary: USSR, 1941; Soviet and German troops clash as the Axis powers push to conquer Moscow.When an elite member of the Red Army’s 181st Special Reconnaissance Detachment finds himself tasked with the survival of a group of American Commandos, he quickly realizes it’s not just the Germans he needs to protect them from.With the harsh Soviet winter settling in and supplies dwindling, the bone-numbing cold brings to life a new series of threats, none of which can be eliminated with a bullet.----Aka, a Band of Brothers meets Lord of the Flies AU with a healthy dose of Steve/Bucky.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 141
Kudos: 117
Collections: Bucky Barnes Bingo 2020





	1. Part I - With a drop of blood you will take them out… for me.

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely AU. Yes, Steve, Bucky and the Howling Commandos were in WWII, but this has nothing to do with their WWII story. There’s no powers, no Hydra and the Howling Commandos have been expanded to include other faces from the MCU… so basically it’s just a war fic set in Russia. 
> 
> **Triggers and Warnings:**
> 
> I don’t give them out every chapter. The summary makes it clear that this is a war fic (with a murder mystery twist), and the tags hint at some of the things to come. If you can’t sit and watch something like Band of Brothers, or Dunkirk, or even something with the unpredictability and violence of Game of Thrones and Vikings, then this isn’t the fic for you. 
> 
> **So, consider this your blanket cover-all warning.** It applies to graphic violence, character death (both main and main supporting), time appropriate racial slurs, sex, attempted sexual assault, disregard and insensitive approaches to PTSD and many other real-world, time appropriate war horrors. 
> 
> On the other hand, if you love a badass Bucky, adore when a character spits blood to the ground and heads in for Round Two (because they could do this all day) and love that epic underdog struggle of people too stubborn to die, then this is the fic for you! 
> 
> It’s dark. It’s gritty. It’s violent. It’ll (hopefully) have you on the edge of your seat, trying to guess how it will end and _who did what?!_ It’s also probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever written. Times are grim here, but there is also hope and love and desperation for each other and soul-crushing need. It’s a war story, but it is also a character study of despair and passion, and the lengths people will go to for those they love, as well as an exploration of where right and wrong blur when the heart is involved.
> 
> Above all else, it is a story of survival.

**_Имя твоё неизвестно, подвиг твой бессмертен_ **

_\- Tomb of the Unknown Soldier (Moscow)_

*********

**Part I**

_With a drop of blood you will take them out… for me._

*****

Infantry Captain Steve Rogers pressed his back against a tree, his breath misting as he panted heavily in the cold air. Frost clung to his cropped beard and his shaggy cut hair. His gloved hands gripped the steel of his gun, steady and true despite his exhaustion.

Brock Rumlow, Second Lieutenant of their tactical squad was beside him, mirroring Steve’s actions while licking hard snow from his bottom lip. It was obvious that he was nervous, and Steve couldn’t blame him for it. They all were. The silence of the battlefield was unnerving. Bodies were cramping, limbs becoming stiff with immobility and cold. Even the knowledge that the German soldiers at their flank were suffering the same fate came as indifferent consolation. 

The eerie atmosphere was shattered with the sound of feet, a yell in German and the peppering sound of bullets as the answer. The spray flicked up the snow at Steve’s right as Dum Dum Dugan dashed between the trees, scuttling up to share Steve’s shelter. Once there the steel rain halted, and silence again followed.

They were at a standstill, the Howling Commandos on one side and the Germans on the other. Both had good cover; rocks and fallen trees and natural ditches piled high with snow, yet neither had anywhere to withdraw. If either side pushed forward, they would be blown away and if either side turned heel in retreat they would be cut down from behind. 

The last hour, if not two, had turned into an oppressive stalemate that wasn’t going to break anytime soon. 

For the Howling Commands, the situation was made even more difficult by their wounded. They said that war bonds ran deep, and Steve had never been one to rationalize that away. Out here at what felt like the frozen ends of the earth, there was never a question of leaving a man behind. 

“How’s he holding up?” Steve asked Dum Dum Dugan. Steve didn’t look at the other man, his eyes stayed locked on the distance ahead of him, waiting for a figure to appear. His finger rested on the trigger, ready and unwavering. 

“Not good,” Dugan said, his voice hoarse with the cold. Steve allowed his eyes to close momentarily, the pain of the death of his men already lingering heavily on his heart. 

So much for their clear cut across the fields of snow and lakes turned to ice. The entire day had been a disaster, right from the moment they’d broken camp in the early hours of the morning. The mission briefs had said it would be easy. They’d had the hard part, now it was time to come home. 

Instead they had met resistance at every step. In one fateful day, their numbers had been cut in half and Steve had found himself in command when Phillips had been shot on the retreat. 

And now Rumlow to his left was asking the very thing that made the day even worse. Dum Dum grunted in response, the sound his half attempt at playing impartial. 

“Where the fuck is-”

Steve cut Rumlow’s question off with a snapped, “I don’t know.” And he didn’t know. Not at all and it was making him anxious. Casting his eyes to the sky, he saw the white glow of the sun behind the heavy snow clouds and felt his heart sink even further. Late. Two hours, maybe even three. It was the same time they’d been dug in across from the enemy.

“We have to go,” Rumlow pressed. He was a good soldier and a good commander, but he lacked the tactical mind that Steve needed. Rumlow couldn’t see the dangers in pushing ahead on their own, or even the reason they were stuck cowering behind boulders and not making a frantic dash across the snow. All he saw was hiding and defeat, and if there was one thing that Rumlow didn’t like, it was to be seen as weak. 

“We can’t leave the rendezvous point.” It wasn’t what Steve had planned to say, but it was what came out anyway. He would have liked to point out the suicidal implications of them running, or of them turning and taking on the German forces, but his mind was elsewhere, his eyes again looking at the sky and seeking out the sun to gauge the time; just to be sure. 

“We can’t hold this damn position either,” Rumlow reasoned. “They’re trained for this; they can take care of themselves, now we need to do the same for us.”

Dugan shook his head on the side, his bowler hat sliding on his head. “You’re both right,” he said, “but the question should be how far are we going to get without ‘em?”

A dying scream snapped all three of them out of their argument. Steve’s first thought was that it was Gabe, finally giving in to the bullet that had carved a hole through his belly earlier in the day. Falsworth and Morita had managed to carry Gabe this far, but the Commando was sick and feverish with a wound that stank like rot. 

Gabe didn’t have long; Steve knew it. He could tell just by looking at the man, this face sallow and his skin shining with sweat even in the cold. It made it worse that there was nothing that they could do. No man got left behind, that was their rule, but the constant moving and then prolonged periods of time spent in the snow wasn’t helping Gabe either. They needed to get away from the Germans, get somewhere warm and dry where they could inspect the wound properly. If they couldn’t do that, then Gabe would be dead before the day was through and right now, Steve wasn’t of a mind to let that happen, though fucked if he had any idea how to prevent it. 

Steve had feared the worst at the cry, but no; it came from behind him, from the enemy that had them pinned. 

Steve couldn’t help but grin as he dropped into the snow with a muffled grunt. He propped his rifle up on a fallen log, leaned into the sight and gave the order before he even saw what was going on; in his bones he just knew. 

“Cover fire!” The able-bodied men around him jumped too, leaning around trees and sinking to their knees, guns locked and loaded and hope filling their expressions. 

There was a streak of black and white across the enemy lines; fast and low and deadly like a wolf. Steve trailed it with the barrel of his gun, his finger forever at the ready. 

That flash of shadow leapt over a fallen log, ducked low and disappeared behind a tree. Then there was another scream. Steve saw an arch of blood fly out from behind the trunk and the sound of a body sinking into the snow carried over the field. 

Shouts filled the air, German commands to ‘shoot’ and ‘look’ meeting the ears of Steve’s men. To Steve’s left one of the younger men, Peter, whooped out loud and a gunshot followed. Bark exploded from a tree, the bullet missing its target. 

And then that figure was moving again. Sleek and silent, the man was nothing but a blur as he dashed out from behind the tree and jumped on the next unsuspecting soldier from behind. They both tumbled to the ground, gurgling sounds of death following. Only the smudge of dark rose and looped through the trees to the right. 

Despite the elation the attack caused in Steve’s men, Steve knew something was wrong. _He_ wouldn’t attack like this, not without the others. Outnumbered and barely armed, no one was that stupid.

Unless they were desperate. 

Steve’s gun tailed the running man, his eyes squinting as he looked for threats. Each time he saw one, he was too late, the dark figure taking the target down before Steve could get a clear shot. Even when the ghostly fighter appeared out of low-lying scrub, a German soldier in his view while a second attempted to take him in the back, Steve was still too slow. 

The two posed no threat. A black knife cut through skin and bone as easily as air, the handle going from right hand to left in order to sink deeply into a German throat. A pivot, a duck to avoid an attempted rifle butt to the head and that knife arched up, again in the right hand, and took the soldier between the ribs. The German staggered and the black smudge pushed forward, driving the dying man backwards. A twist of the knife and a kick of the foot had the attacker using the German as a human shield, bullets biting into his back as the rest of the German troop opened fire. 

“Cover him!” Steve yelled again. 

Steve’s men opened fire again, cutting the Germans down where they stood. In the confusion of the surprise attack, they had apparently forgotten the group of Allied soldiers that they had pressed and dug in across the field. Rumlow and the others seemed all too happy to remind them of their presence. 

Steve kept his finger on the trigger but never squeezed, his eyes following the path the lone man created. 

The dying German fell from the knife and hit the snow, blood running almost as fast as his killer. Trees hindered Steve’s view as the man ran, jumping over obstacles and skirting around shrubs. He was so fast, zigzagging to avoid a spray of gunfire while slashing that black blade over throats and through faces. Once, twice, three times he struck at the one man, cutting him open from cheek to neck, neck to shoulder and shoulder to stomach. The knife finished the job by driving home through the man’s eye. The German soldier stumbled back with the force and the lone attacker kept pushing before using his leg to kick the body off his blade. 

Then his head snapped forward as someone managed to land a blow to the back of his skull. Steve felt his breath hitch in his throat, his heart skipping a beat and then skipping a second. His fingers locked up and his teeth sunk into his bottom lip. He couldn’t get a shot. Their man was in the way, the enemy shielded from Steve’s position. 

“Fuck,” Steve cursed. Rumlow shuffled beside him, his feet digging into the snow as he repositioned his gun. 

“I can’t clear the shot,” Rumlow muttered, apparently feeling the same anxiety as Steve. 

“Don’t try if you can’t,” Steve ordered, the words a little snappier than they should have been. It wasn’t worth the risk. 

Fists swung, elbows lashed out and legs kicked up snow as boots hit home. They were evenly matched, each of them attacking and blocking as they scuffled across the field. The black knife fell to the ground as Steve saw their man take a brutal blow to the arm. 

Steve chewed his lip until he tasted blood and peered down his rifle’s sight. “Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered to himself, chanting the words over and over as if the other man could hear. “Come on. Either take the Kraut down or get out of the way.”

The black shadow smashed his fist into the German’s stomach, driving him back but the shock only lasted a moment. The German’s fist sailed through the air in kind, catching his opponent square in the jaw. The man wheeled backwards, incorporating the force of the blow into a pivot; Steve saw two things. One was the way his ally swiped his hand across his boot and the other was that he had taken three good steps to the left, slowly starting to expose his adversary. A flash of silver showed that he was armed again yet as he rose, he stopped, face to face with the barrel of an enemy pistol. 

_He_ paused and Steve could see the heaving rise and fall of his chest; could see the way he panted for breath as his exhales materialized themselves in the freezing air. 

It was a halted moment in time; a stand-off between two men. The black shadow was caught like a deer in the headlights, silver blade in hand and bloody knife at his feet and yet target out of reach. Bodies littered the ground around him, and the enemy soldier’s arm shook as he levelled the gun and took aim. 

Steve shot the German before he had time to pull the trigger. 

It wasn’t a clean shot and sure wasn’t a killing hit, but his target had been nothing but a sliver. It was enough though. It gave their man the time he needed to duck the gun, scoop his favourite blade off the ground and then, using his left hand, drive that knife home upwards from under the man’s chin. The second knife pierced the heart, marking the kill as ruthless as it was humane. 

Blood gushed and bubbled at the German’s mouth and he fell to the ground the moment that knife was wrenched free. 

“Thank fuck,” Steve whispered. Sweat was running across his brow despite the icy conditions and he kept his hands, clammy in his heavy gloves, wrapped around his gun to hide the fact that they were shaking. 

Lifting his head, Steve looked across the battlefield just as the black smudge of a soldier turned to look in the direction of the life-saving bullet. Icy eyes locked with Steve’s and Steve felt that uneasy pressure finally lift off his chest. The man nodded his thanks for the aid and knelt to wipe the blade of his knife clean on the uniform of the dead soldier. The knife disappeared back into the top of his boot. 

Steve still couldn’t move; it was a struggle enough to breathe and concentrate when Rumlow said something about that being the end of it. Steve ignored him and waited, watching as that solo fighter stood slowly, wiped blood from his mouth and looked around the field. 

“All clear,” the man yelled as he shifted his weight, his voice ringing strong and assertive. Slowly Steve rose, his gun still at the ready and his eyes flicking across the horizon. Nothing moved. Nothing but the fur that draped around the lone soldier’s shoulders and the curls of his hair that blew in the breeze. 

“Good fight, Ghost,” Morita yelled and Steve heard Peter cheer again. He ignored them just as much as he had ignored Rumlow and picked his way across the field. 

That blur of black, the lone ranger who had just liberated them from their impossible position, stood panting in a sea of bodies and pink slush. His chest heaved up and down, a slight cough coming every now and then and when Steve reached him, he saw the way the other’s tongue carefully poked out to lick at his freshly split lip. 

They called James Buchanan Barnes ‘Ghost’ for the most part. Something about it seemed to fit. His official codename was _The_ Winter Soldier, but Steve’s men had deemed it too impersonal (given that his troop called themselves Winter Soldiers) and too long to whoop out in excitement. They’d tossed around words like ‘White Wolf’ and ‘Soldat’ before settling on Ghost; silent, cold, bleak and fucking deadly, or at least that was how Peter had rationalized the name. 

Sniper, ranger and all-round super soldier as Rumlow liked it put it, Barnes wore the flurry of nicknames with cooled grace and a general lack of interest.

To Steve though, _The_ Winter Soldier was Bucky. Or sometimes even just Buck. 

An outsider in more ways than his nickname could possibly suggest, Bucky was as much of an enigma as he was a trained killer. A Spetsnaz of the Red Army, Bucky was part of the Howling Commandos 181st Special Reconnaissance Detachment escort through the Soviet Union. With the Germans hitting the western front hard and threatening to march on Moscow, and the Japanese turning the Pacific Ocean red with blood, Steve’s ragtag team of multicultural specialists had been deployed to help track and hinder the German front while gathering intelligence on the Axis movement. 

The powers that be called it an exchange of skills, training and knowledge. A mighty recon force bred for infiltration and guerrilla warfare, combining the best of the Allied forces. 

Of course, none of them had thought of the reality of the deep snow, or, at the time, realised how many Germans were flooding the icy drifts of the Soviet Union in hopes of overrunning the mighty capital. 

Bucky and his Spetsnaz unit were meant to help with that. They were part of the most elite military division in the world, trained to manoeuvre undetected behind hostile lines, sabotage enemy operations and survive indefinitely off the grid. 

The Winter Soldier division of the Spetsnaz were the boogiemen that other special forces feared. 

They’d been part of Operation Insight from the start, parachuting in to rendezvous with Phillips and his team, and help guide the Howling Commandos through the unforgiving terrain. 

For three long months the Howling Commandos and their Spetsnaz escort had tracked and followed the Axis troops along the Soviet defence. Europe was becoming a place where borders shifted by the hour and Steve was honestly hard pressed to know what side of the battle lines they were on at the best of times. That was where the Spetsnaz were so invaluable. 

With the reconnaissance mission yielding harrowing results regarding the Axis movement, it had then become the Spetsnaz’s assignment to keep Steve and what was left of the Howling Commandos alive, all while doubling back over territory newly conquered by their enemy. 

“Where are the others?” Steve finally asked. He wanted to ask a whole lot more – was Bucky alright? Was he hurt, and what the fuck was he thinking going out there alone? – but he held his tongue, sticking to basic tactical reports. 

Bucky looked sick, pale and warn and the splatters of blood and quickly forming bruise across his face accentuated that. He didn’t make eye contact with Steve; something Steve had noticed straight away even if Bucky wasn’t usually the social type. 

He’d always looked at Steve. 

“They’re not coming.”

With their official escape route severed, the Spetsnaz had circled back, silent as ghosts in the coming winter, to try and find a way through the German push and to put an end to the assault bearing down on them. They’d left earlier that day when the first bullets had cut up both earth and skin and they hadn’t been seen since. All the while the Germans had continued to move, pushing the Howling Commandos in the one way they didn’t want. It had left Steve with a sinking feeling in his heart that something bad had happened to the 181st force. 

Apparently, he had been right. 

“Karpov?” Steve asked in disbelief. Bucky merely shook his head, his eyes red and not quite focused. Karpov was the leader of the Spetsnaz squad and while Steve didn’t understand the Red Army’s military ranks, he was sure that Karpov was on par with Phillips. 

“Took steel on the retreat.” Bucky rubbed at the back of his neck, a movement that Steve knew he did when he was upset and worried. Bucky had all those little signs that no one else saw. The men of the Howling Commandos thought he was cold and heartless and incapable of emotion, but Steve knew better. Bucky felt it – life and death and all that bullshit of war – just like everyone else, but it was in his training not to let it show. Not unless one knew what to look for and Steve seemed to be the only person who did. 

“I don’t know how, but they seemed to know we were coming. It was an ambush and they just-” Bucky’s hand ghosted to his own side, pressing in and rubbing and for the first time, Steve saw the blood. It ran down the length of Bucky camo-fatigues and furs, staining the cloth red from his ribs down to his belt. 

“You’re wounded?” It was as much a question as a statement. Steve stepped in closer, his hands reaching for Bucky’s wrist, intent on exposing the wound for scrutiny. 

“It’s just a scratch,” the Russian said, batting at the hand. Steve tried again and met the same resistance. “Really. Bullet graze. Nothing stuck. Just a cut.”

“I want it seen to nonetheless,” Steve ordered. Bucky just nodded and muttered something about ‘later’ under his breath. 

“Captain!” Dum Dum’s voice floated across the field; Steve only turned his head when Barnes did the same. The hulking man was standing next to a tree, his head shaking wearily as his eyes stayed locked on Gabe. The other man was on the forest floor, his arms and legs spread and his chest still. Falsworth’s knees sunk into the earth above Gabe’s head, a wet cloth in his hands that had turned pink with blood. 

“Gabe?” Bucky asked, already moving forward. Steve followed, his eyes on Bucky’s back. Ice crunched under Steve’s heavy ammunition boots while Bucky passed silently, the lightweight rubber soled shoes that all SRDs wore allowing him to move with barely a sound. 

“Phillips is dead. Gabe took a bullet to the stomach trying to drag him back.” Bucky’s step faltered at the words, the weight of the death of the leader pushing his shoulders down. His hand came up to rub at the back of his neck again before he resumed his stride and Steve knew that he had filed that crushing information away to be dealt with later. 

Bucky sunk to his knees in the thick snow, his hands scrambling to undo the buttons closing one of the pockets in his pants. Wordlessly, the rest of Steve’s men gathered. Peter came first, Morita following in his footsteps. Rollins and Rumlow travelled as one, Rumlow tapping the shoulders of those he passed, jabbing his chin out in a way that ordered them to keep watch. 

“How long?” Bucky asked Falsworth, his eyes flashing up for only a moment as he pulled a syringe out of the opened pocket. Falsworth used his arm to wipe at his own brow, a deep-set frown pulling his features into a knot around his nose. Steve could see the stress there, building behind his eyes and stealing the words his mouth tried to say. 

It was Dugan that replied, Falsworth’s mouth opening and closing like a fish as he struggled to look at anything other than Gabe. “Took the bullet four hours past. Heart stopped a minute or two ago...”

“There’s no hope; he’s dead,” Rollins cursed.

Bucky spat something in Russian that sounded harsh and possibly insulting and Steve was momentarily glad that he didn’t understand him. 

Steve watched as Bucky used his mouth to yank at the fingers of his glove, pulling his right hand free and exposing it to the biting cold. Bucky pushed his fingers up against Gabe’s throat, moving and prodding in search of a pulse. He then moved his hand over Gabe’s mouth and nose. It looked like he was trying to smother him, but Steve knew he was searching for even the softest feel of air being drawn in and out. 

Bucky wasn’t their medic; not by a long shot. They’d lost their medic four days ago; a bullet through the back of the head made it pretty obvious that they were on their own from now on. But Bucky had always been a semi-decent stand-in, the one with the smarts and the knowhow to patch up wounds, and Steve guessed he was about as close to a medic as the SRDs got. It helped that Bucky had been the more social of the 181st soldiers, which was ironic given how quiet and withdrawn he was. The others though; they’d been silent and solitary and even Steve didn’t so much as know another name other than Karpov.

With the medic shot down three days ago, Karpov gone and Gabe the one bleeding, it left them with Bucky, and no one seemed game enough to question his actions. Steve would have shot them down anyway. 

Steve watched as Bucky lent down, sniffed at the wound and made a humming sound deep in the back of his throat. 

Lifting his head back up, Bucky had a scowl across his face. It made him look older than he really was; weathered and haunted by things seen but unsaid. Steve watched as Bucky shot Rollins a nasty look, all the while using his teeth to yank the cap off the syringe. Steve eyed the needle; a seven-gauge hypodermic head and beside him, Rumlow shuffled. Bucky spat the plastic needle cover at Dugan’s feet. 

“There’s always hope.” And then he slammed the needle downwards with all the strength of someone trying to cleave a person clean in two. The point pierced through canvas and thermals, penetrating leather before sliding through skin. It didn’t even pause, didn’t tangle and graze off rib bone; a clean path straight above the heart and it made Steve shiver slightly. That was what Bucky was trained for, what those black knives of his were made to do. He knew the positions of every vital organ in the human body, how to puncture them without snagging bone and how to deliver death, both quickly and slowly.

Bucky’s thumb pressed down on the plunger, delivering the liquid. Steve knew what it was; fools syrup. A last desperate win or lose attempt at life. Epinephrine, adrenaline in its purest form delivered to the heart by intracardiac injection.

Bucky lent down, his ear pressing to Gabe’s chest; his teeth nibbled on his bottom lip as he waited, not at all concerned about the way Gabe’s blood seeped into his hair. The rest of the men were silent, Steve looked at each of them in turn, taking in weary faces smudged with dirt and mud and blood, and with hands that shook in the cold. 

“James,” Steve said gently. It had been a hard day. They’d all seen and done things that they hadn’t been expecting and the loss of their leader and their comrades was a blow difficult to bear. Steve was even sure that Bucky had seen worse today. A team of six elite cut down to a sole survivor in the space of one ambush; Steve had seen it in the way Bucky eliminated the enemy, all knives and multiple strikes. The Spetsnaz force were picked for their speed and silence; they used knives instead of guns; they still shot people but only when they had to. They were the blade in the darkness and the shadow in the enemy camp. They struck once and it killed; a puncture through the ribcage, a swipe of a hidden knife across the throat. They didn’t hack and chop, they didn’t engage in open hand to hand combat as Bucky had done moments before. 

But this false sense of hope, of resurrecting the dead, was not helping any of them. 

“Shhh,” Bucky hissed, his eyes closing as he pressed his ear tighter against the folds of Gabe’s clothing. Steve sighed, his eye twitching as he fought the want to just grab Bucky by his fur pelt and drag him upwards. It was true that Barnes, technically speaking, didn’t have to take his orders. He was not part of their squad; an outside agent with his own orders and agenda, but at times like this he was still the junior – not even a commissioned officer as far as Steve could tell – and it was not good to have him defying orders so blatantly in front of the rest of the troops. 

Steve was about to say as much when a smile split Bucky’s face. He sat up, wiped his blood covered cheek on his shoulder and then slammed his fist into Gabe’s chest, full strength and violent. 

Gabe gasped out loud, his whole body jerking, and Steve was pretty sure that Rumlow jumped back at least two steps at the shock of it all. Gabe’s eyes snapped open as his head lifted off the ground.

And then he sunk back, his body going limp and his eyes closing once again. Yet his chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm and his dark eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks.

When he was able to peel his eyes off his wounded companion, Steve saw Bucky still wiping at his face, removing the last of Gabe’s blood while staring bitterly up at Rollins. 

“Carry him,” Bucky said, the words holding the weight of an order he wasn’t authorized to give. 

“We’re moving out,” Bucky continued, his feet twisting in the slush as he rose. His eyes settled on Steve then. It was the first time he had held his gaze since the conclusion of the fight and Steve resisted the urge to shiver. There was something in those eyes, or something missing even, that froze Steve to the core. 

“There is a village two klicks from here. We need to make it by nightfall.” Barnes said. 

Steve nodded, breaking eye contact and turning to his men. He was in charge, Bucky wasn’t, but right now he was willing to go on faith. If the last remaining survivor of the Spetsnaz’s told them they were moving, then they were moving. 

“You heard him. Take what you can from the dead and get ready to move out.”

*****

**Part II Preview**

“All clear,” Bucky called out, his steps silent as he made his way back to the door. But Steve blocked his path, ducking his head under the archway and manoeuvring Bucky back inside. 

It left the two of them, alone and momentarily safe and Steve was there before Bucky could even think. Lips pressed against his, hands sinking into his hair and it was all Bucky could do to lower his gun and open his mouth to meet Steve in the middle. Steve was like a man starved, his lips crushing, his teeth scraping and his tongue invading. Bucky allowed it, groaning into the kiss as he let Steve lead. 

But stolen moments were always over too quickly. 


	2. Part II -  Underneath my skin there is a violence; it’s got a gun in its hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've never seen anything on Spetsnaz training, then totally google. Obviously it's all modern-day, but they're crazily badass!

**Part II**

_Underneath my skin there is a violence; it’s got a gun in its hand_

*****

The village was a dark smudge on the white horizon. 

Bucky crouched in the mud, picking a shell casing out of the snowy slush. It was German. Bringing it to his nose, he sniffed the open end. The stench of gunpowder still clung to the metal, but it was faint. 

“Two days,” Bucky said, “give or take.” Dropping the shell back to the earth, he stood and turned back to the rest of the men. Steve slid in by his side. “They cut through here from the north,” he explained. “Tracks go south-west; chances are it was the group you ran into in the forest.”

Bucky saw Steve nod at the words, his eyes travelling over what remained of his men. 

“We spend the night here,” Steve finally said, stealing the words out of Bucky’s mouth. “We’ll base ourselves in the hall, but I want every building swept and cleared. Let’s not have any surprises.” 

The men nodded, voicing a ‘Yes sir’ as one. Bucky hung back, letting Steve continue. 

“I want a quarter watch and a perimeter set. Dugan, take Gabe to the hall and see if you can make him comfortable. Falsworth, go with him. Bucky, you and I will sweep to the south and west. Peter, Morita, you canvas the north and east. The rest of you stick to the middle streets and fortify our position.”

Again, the men answered in the affirmative and Bucky kept quiet, his mouth not quite able to form the shapes needed for a ‘Yes, Sir!’. He didn’t know why. He had the utmost respect for Captain Steve Rogers, but still, the man wasn’t his leader. Steve was higher in rank, but Bucky was higher in training. The 181st were a force unto themselves, there to help, guide, protect and serve, but they had their orders, their structure and chain of command. 

Karpov was Bucky’s leader, and now he was gone, marking Bucky as a sole operative in a unit he didn’t know. 

Knowing your company was everything. Drill Sergeants yelled it into their faces from day one of training. _“Look at the man next to you,”_ they would scream, and like the good little soldiers they all were, they would look left and right. _“They will become your everything. You will fight next to them, piss next to them, shit next to them. And one day you will either die next to them or drink next to them depending on how close you ladies get to the real fight.”_

Bucky knew that training well, even if he had only remained in the preparation camp for a handful of months before his world had changed. That was when a tall man with blonde hair and a well-cut suit had waltzed in, exchanged papers and whisked Bucky off into a car with no word of explanation. 

From there, things were different. Bucky had asked questions, and they were met with silence. They went to an airfield, got into a small plane and flew East, up over the civilised West and into the cold of Siberia. Bucky had been sure he was bound for a gulag camp. Clearly, he’d said something wrong, and this was to be his end. 

They had landed in the middle of nowhere; a large open snowfield with no real airstrip and from there he’d been handed over to another group and led away. Heavy packs, silence and a day and a half march through the ice; Bucky had stopped asking questions after the first ten klicks. 

Through snowdrifts, over ice lakes and up the sides of mountains, they had finally rounded in on a shanty town of tents and shacks, surrounding a stone bunker carved into the edge of the cliff. 

That had been Bucky’s introduction into the world of the 181st Special Reconnaissance Detachment and the start of his real training. 

To this day he had no clue why they picked him, an immigrant kid who’d spent most of his life on the streets being a brat with a grudge against authority. Who had watched him and singled him out for the advanced tactical unit? Why they chose him, the youngest of the recruits who still stank of a lack of understanding of the Soviet regime was still a mystery. Bucky didn’t follow orders well, didn’t fall into line like the rest of Red Army recruits, and his file no doubt took the cake for most time spent in the Contemplation Pit in such a short time. 

It made no sense to Bucky then, and now, as the lone survivor of his group, it still didn’t. 

Either way, he’d continued his training in the frozen wastelands of Siberia, under the stony presence of one Vasily Karpov. He learnt new names and faces, was told he would shit and piss and eat with these strangers and that he would die for people he didn’t know. They taught him to shoot in ways that never covered in standard military training, and when they were expert marksmen, Karpov had tied their right arms back painfully and told them to shoot again with their left. 

_“Get it right. Don’t fucking miss,”_ he’d bark, and time after time, the recruits would barely skim the outline of the target, their left arms too weak for the back-kick and their nerves too shattered to concentrate. _“What the fuck was that? You shoot like a Kraut. Drop and give me a hundred. No, don’t untie his right arm. What do you think this is? A nursery school?”_

Triple tap; twice in the chest and once in the head. Finish the job properly and make sure the enemy couldn’t get up to shoot you in the back; it was worth the bullets. Learn to do it with both hands as you never know when your right might be broken. 

When the Spetsnaz recruits had thought they were finished, left arm as skilled as their right, Karpov told them that only failures would hold a gun again. Guns were for the weak rejects left behind in the Red Army. 

Then came fists and legs, heads and shoulders. Break bones with a punch, rupture knees with a downward kick, crush windpipes with a jab, discombobulate enemies with a handful of snow. Fight dirty; “ _don’t be afraid to get some eye juice under your nails, Soldat_.” 

Peppered in bruises and bumps with aching limbs, split lips and swollen eyes, they were then told that fists were for the feeble and stupid. Only retards and fish monger’s wives got caught without a real weapon. 

To this day Bucky could remember how one of the recruits had been smart at that, challenging authority and reminding them that they had been told that they’d never carry a gun. Guns were weapons.

He’d been sent to The Spit to balance for seven hours as penance, his rifle his weight and executer. 

Bucky had lost count of how many times he had ended up in that very same position. Back chatting, breaking orders, looking at Karpov with malice – that was always Bucky’s let down – and helping his fellow recruits were all one-way tickets to The Spit. It was a tall outcropping of rock that ended in a flat point no more than a foot wide and jutted out over a frozen lake. That was the 181st’s version of the Contemplation Pit and standing there in the frosty midday sun while struggling to balance with a rifle held above his head and his nose running in the cold, Bucky found he almost missed the CP. 

They’d leave them there for hours, depending on the offence, and by the end of it, if the recruit hadn’t succumbed and fallen into the freezing water, then their legs were shaking, their arms were like jelly, all rational thought was gone, and the only words they could say was ‘Yes Sir!’ ‘No Sir!’ and ‘Thank you, Sir!’ when Karpov told them that they were as useless as the fat Americans.

It didn’t take long for them to realise what their weapons were. Thin, double-bladed knives, black as night so not to reflect the light yet able to be seen in the snow. The handles weighted, the hilts made of knurled metal to optimise grip. Secret, silent and deadly, they were fashioned for covert operations, surprise attacks and quick, calculated stabs that could pierce through uniform, skin and organ as easily as butter. They could push through bone if the Soldat were strong enough.

They were called the Fairbairn-Sykes Fighting Knife, and the recruits were told to cherish the weapon more than the life of the comrade beside them, and the person beside him. 

Only Stalin commanded higher regard. 

Knife training lasted months, covered grips and fighting styles and human anatomy. Stab here and they’ll bleed, slash here and they’ll fall, stab there and they will die. Bucky had taken it all in, soaking it up and then repeated it to himself over again each time he found himself saluting The Spit. 

And when they’d mastered the use of their knives, Karpov told them they were all shit-licking Krauts and took them away. They weren’t worthy. They went back to pistols and rifles, assembling and disassembling them until their fingers bled. They learned to shot without the use of their eyes and leaned to stay calm under fire by standing in front of targets. 

Bucky’s first bullet scar had been earned that way; a Soviet slug in the shoulder as Josef had shakenly taken his shot with a blindfold over his eyes. 

Later, with his right arm bandaged with about as much care as the blindfold that knotted his hair, his Tokarev in his left and Josef in front of the target, Bucky had cleared the shot. 

Josef had died, but Bucky had at least got him in the head, and the blood splatter had hit the bullseye. Karpov had rewarded him for his marksmanship by halving the time spent in punishment for the death on The Spit. 

Time passed, the war started without them, and they all became different people. Ruthless and cold, trained to kill, maim and make the enemy talk. They could lay charges, disarm bombs, sabotage rifles and administer intermediate first aid. They were ambidextrous, climbers and divers. They jumped from planes, dug holes and ran for hours. They hunted in the night, planned in the day and sleep was for the weak. 

After that, they became something else entirely. Inhumans. They became Winter Soldiers and for all his skills, Bucky had earned the title of The. _The_ Winter Soldier. One of many, but the face of the boogiemen they’d all become. 

The devils’ favourite. 

Some were shipped off as parachute specialists; others went to the navy, offering their specialised skills in small boats that stormed enemy crafts. One group led by a fierce woman with red hair, became double agents, intelligence gatherers and spies in pivotal cities like Budapest and Prague. They were the most violent and deadly group in the Red Army and the most unknown, secretive military unit in the world. An elite death squad that could hide in plain sight, infiltrate, assassinate and destabilize. Karpov was sure that they’d be able to take down an entire country in one night, provided they could get across the Nazi lines. 

Bucky and a handful of others had been assigned to an operation led by none other than Karpov himself. They were to parachute behind the lines the Germans were pushing into the Soviet Union and hook up with some rag-tag ‘specialist’ team of Allied soldiers. Karpov had made his opinion on the Allied soldiers clear; they were riffraff claiming to be highly trained but unable to find their own dicks in the dark. The 181st was there to assist, which, in other words, meant they were going to do all the work but be _diplomatic_ about it while sending as many of the Howling Commandos home as possible. 

The mission was all about forming alliances and setting a good impression with America and England and showing the world that communism wasn’t to be feared while paving the way for an extended political play. The enemy of my enemy. 

When they’d first embarked, Bucky had spent the night in silence in the aircraft, waiting to jump. In that darkness, he had again asked himself why. Why was he there, why was he hand chosen for this group, and what did they see in him that he obviously didn’t? Was it his anger, his fury at the world and his life, or was it his willingness to disobey orders that he thought were stupid and endure the punishment he knew those actions deserved?

Red had flashed green as the light signalled the time and Bucky, just like the others, had stood and tapped the man in front of him after checking their pack and straps. A hand on his shoulder told him he’d been checked and ready to go and then before he even had time to think, he was free-falling into darkness.

As he fell, sound and colour and feeling lost in the whirling of the wind and the violent jerking of his parachute snapping open, Bucky remembered what one of the older men had said; only crazy people jumped out of a perfectly good plane.

He was halfway to the ground when the bullets started flying. They whipped past like swarming bees, loud and bright and deadly. Bucky had grabbed onto the straps of his chute and pulled left and right, trying to keep his fall erratic as light exploded across the ground. Above him, he heard a crash and felt the heat as that perfectly good plane lit up the night sky. It spiralled towards the ground, its right wing shattered and aflame as around him, people dropped from the sky, their parachutes punctured beyond repair.

Bucky had drifted down, the line of trees reaching up to meet him with restrained urgency. There was nowhere to go but down, nowhere to run to even if he had been able to think. Down towards the enemy and their guns, their artillery, the darkness of an unknown forest and a war that he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

He had crashed into a thicket of trees, ruffling through leaves and scraping past branches until his parachute pulled him to a rough stop.

Hanging from a tree, his parachute in knots as tight as those that gripped his stomach, Bucky had let his training take over. Like all his unit, his Fairbairn-Sykes was right where it should be; within reach and easily accessible, not hindered by pack or supplies. Bucky had wrenched it free, reached up and cut himself down from the tree rope by rope.

He landed in the mud, his hands pressed forward, his head bowed lowly and his right knee feeling the damp of the ground. It was all just as he’d been told; no free-falling, no pressure to the ankles and other joints; no rolling as he hit the ground; he’d landed smooth, silent and poised. Bucky left his parachute, the white canvas hanging like a corpse from the trees, swung his gun over his shoulder, and kept his knife in hand as he had set out towards the rendezvous point. 

Maybe that was his death sentence; the moment in time when the soldier took over and strangled out the life of the boy he had only just been. Weaving his way through the dense trees that littered enemy soil, Bucky tried to stop searching for the answers to those dark questions. 

Bucky had killed his second man that night, as well as his third and fourth, and as more followed, his questions subsided. 

Standing there now, laces deep in the mud of the Soviet Union’s rasputitsa and as the only surviving member of his unit, Bucky was still no closer to knowing the answers to questions his mind had already forgotten. 

“Bucky?” The voice made Bucky jump. Blinking, he pulled his eyes from the mud and looked up to see Steve staring at him. The rest of Steve’s platoon was already moving off, hiking through the slush towards the main hall. 

“Sorry,” Bucky muttered, more to himself then to the other man. Steve shrugged and offered him a smile before jerking his head off to the west. 

“Shall we go?”

It made Bucky smile. The question. Steve could have ordered it, could have snapped about soldiers who didn’t focus being weak links or told Bucky to hurry the fuck up and do as he was instructed. But he didn’t. For all of Bucky’s inability to accept Captain Rogers as his commander, Steve seemed just as enable to order _The_ Winter Soldier around.

It worked well for them both. 

Bucky went first. It was what he was made for, what he was trained and trained and _trained_ to do. He was their eyes and ears, their lookout and the expendable one of their force. None of them had looked to him when they were told to protect the people next to them in training camp. 

The first building they entered was a residential home. Steve took up a stance at the door, his back to the wall, gun aimed and his eyes on the road; Bucky braved the darkness and crept inside. Stark and barren, it was nothing more than a room with a stove and a thatched bed in the corner. The ceiling was straw; the support beams old and rotten. Nowhere to hide, nothing to report. 

“All clear,” Bucky called out, his steps silent as he made his way back to the door. But Steve blocked his path, ducking his head under the archway and manoeuvring Bucky back inside. 

It left the two of them, alone and momentarily safe and Steve was there before Bucky could even think. Lips pressed against his, hands sinking into his hair, and it was all Bucky could do to lower his gun and open his mouth to meet Steve in the middle. Steve was like a man starved, his lips crushing, his teeth scraping, and his tongue invading. Bucky allowed it, groaning into the kiss as he let Steve lead. 

But stolen moments were always over too quickly. 

Steve pulled back first, his breathing uneven, and rested their foreheads. Eyes closed, Bucky took the warmth and drew in a deep lungful of air, trying to get his heart to stop beating so damn fast. 

“You were late.” Steve’s words were hardly above a whisper, but Bucky heard them; felt them ghosting out over his skin. 

“I made it.”

“I was terrified.”

Steve’s head moved and Bucky opened his eyes, feeling the other’s hand cupping his cheek. His face was turned up and Steve’s eyes flicked over the bruises and cuts, some from the fight with the Germans, some from the fight that marked the death of Bucky’s companions and some from twigs and branches he had crashed through on his desperate run to the rendezvous point. Steve’s thumb flicked over the swelling around Bucky’s eye, and Bucky tried not to grimace. 

“Are you alright?” Steve asked. Bucky nodded silently, and Steve raised an eyebrow, just as silently demanding an answer. Bucky curtly gave him what he wanted. 

“I’m fine.”

“Really?”

Bucky sighed, dropping his eyes even though he knew it would make Steve worry more. “I’m fine. Just… tired.”

Steve nodded wordlessly, his large hands reaching forward to the wound across Bucky’s ribs. Bucky knew it was coming; in fact, he was surprised that Steve had managed to hold out so long. Fingers pulled at the torn material, drawing a hiss from Bucky as the dried blood tugged at his skin. 

“It’s not that bad,” Bucky said as Steve inspected. The other man didn’t say a thing; there was nothing to say. Bucky was no hero; he wasn’t downplaying a deadly wound in hoes of seeming tough. A bullet caused it, but it was a scratch, a graze that had left his skin split and slightly burnt. Nothing more. 

Steve nodded to himself as he pressed in around the wound. It made Bucky’s lip twitch, his eyes watering at the sting, but he didn’t make a sound. Bucky knew why Steve did it; check for blood flow, for a sign of infection or, just as deadly, frostbite. He had to see the inside of the wound, make sure the skin was pink and not dark or tinged with green. He seemed happy with what he saw as he pulled his hands back and pulled at Bucky’s shirt to cover the injury. 

“I want it seen to the moment we are in the hall. You’ll need stitches.”

Bucky nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll do it myself,” Steve corrected. The statement had that hint of command that he used with Bucky; not quite an order but not at all leaving room for argument. 

“If that’s what you want.” Steve nodded again, motioning to the door. “Shall we go?”

“Don’t want any surprises,” Bucky repeated the other man’s words from earlier. He led the way, as always, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Steve knew Bucky’s reasons for taking the lead. 

They shuffled across the open patches of mud and snow, heads low and shoulders hunched then pressed themselves flat against walls and trees. Building after building passed and they found nothing. No signs of life and yet no signs of death either. There was burnt wood, some homes merely husks of what they had once been and shell casing in the mud, but nothing else. If there had been a fight it was quick and brief with little to no causalities. Chances were the entire village had up and moved when the German threat came marching across the plains and the burning and bullets had been the German’s way of making sure that no one would return. 

They came to the last building, an old stable by the looks of it, which had long since been abandoned. No one had horses these days, not unless they were part of the army. One big shed, it was partitioned off into multiple rooms, doorways and shadows at every turn. Bucky took the first room, checking corners, ceiling and floor for possible traps and Steve followed him inside. They tag-teamed, one staying at a defendable position while the other scurried into the darkness to claim another section as safe. Going was slow and in the darkness, Bucky could hear Steve’s heart beating as fast as his own. He could also hear the other man’s footsteps and it made Bucky miss his 181st comrades even more. He never heard them, the sound of their shoes on stone or mud never carried, and it stood as a harsh reminder of all he had once had and what he held close now. New men, new ways, different training and Bucky was the outsider. 

He heard what they said about him and the rest of his unit. Ghosts and assassins; bringers of death who didn’t fight fair. Rumlow had once likened them to the enemy, sneaking through the night and stealing lives at will. Karpov had told Bucky not to listen, to remember that when it all came down to it, Bucky was better than them and that was what they hated. That when the time called for it, the Americans would be begging and thankful for the aid of the 181st. 

It still stung though, even if Bucky couldn’t understand why. 

Steve stopped, his back to another door and his fist raised. Bucky pushed his thoughts to the side and moved into the room. He double-checked, not that he didn’t trust Steve or his abilities, but because that was what he was trained to do before moving further into the darkness. 

And then it was his turn to stop. 

A muffled sound to the right had Bucky hefting his rifle up and pointing the barrel. Steve paused next to him, his eyes searching the darkness. Bucky took control. He used his left hand to point at Steve, then at his eyes and the room behind them; keep a lookout and watch my back, it said. Steve nodded once, his jaw set like stone and turned his back to Bucky, his feet spreading apart and his eye squinting at the doorway through the sight of his gun. 

Bucky approached slowly, one foot crossing over the other as he crab-walked towards the disturbance. His shoes didn’t make a sound as he crossed the old wooden floor. He kept his gun up, the sight ready at his cheek, yet he put trust in his eyes in the darkness. And he listened; with each step Bucky took, he heard more sounds, muffled and hollow, scratching and breathing. 

Someone was there. 

Licking his lips, the burn of the cut kept him knowing he was alive. Bucky stilled himself as he came to the corner, gathering his courage and strength and preparing himself for the ripping feel of bullets and death. Again, he wondered why he had been drafted into the Spetsnazs’ elite; there were others more fit for this, created to lead and be fearless. Those that wanted to be heroes and wanted to run into battle and find glory. That wasn’t Bucky; deep down, he was just a scared kid with so much training under his belt that he felt brainwashed into being something else. 

With a silent breath, Bucky tightened his grip on his gun and stepped around the corner, the barrel lowered at the source of the sound. 

And then he stopped dead in his tracks. Bucky lowered his gun, let out a half-strangled sob at the sight and felt something in him die. 

There was blood. Red and black and in different stages of drying. It clung to the wood, staining deep and filling in crevices. The stench of piss and shit was so strong that Bucky couldn’t understand why he hadn’t smelled it before. Over it all, the ceiling had caved in, large hunks of support beams and crumbling stone littered the ground, some burnt and some dark with bodily fluid. 

And under all that was a young man. He stared up at Bucky in terror, his blue eyes icy like the unusual colour of his hair. He had a rock in his hand that shook like a leaf in autumn; the look on his face said he was too afraid to throw it. He sat there, frozen in fear and trembling from cold with his legs lost somewhere under the weight of the fallen ceiling. Blood seeped out from the darkness. 

“Buck?” Steve’s voice was fearful; the name shot out over his shoulder as he continued to cover their backs. Bucky just shook his head, knowing that Steve couldn’t see it and yet completely incapable of doing anything else. 

“It’s a kid.” Bucky finally said. 

It was then that the rock fell from the man’s hands and words spilled out of the boy’s mouth, pained and scared and Bucky couldn’t keep up. 

Footsteps behind him marked Steve abandoning his post, and then his body was so close to Bucky’s that Bucky could feel his warmth. 

“Fuck,” Steve swore as he peered over Bucky’s shoulder. 

Bucky couldn’t look. Steve’s eyes flicked to Bucky’s. They both knew what they had to do. 

Bucky nodded and moved forward, but Steve’s hand stopped him. The other man said all he wanted to with a look of his eyes; they glanced downwards to the fresh blood that seeped into Bucky’s clothing, and then he shook his head. 

Bucky let out a sigh but allowed Steve to have his way. He slung his gun over his shoulder and caught Steve’s out of midair, hefting it at the ready. He went through the safety check procedure of an unknown weapon; cocked the barrel, checked the bullets and peered down the sight. Check. Right elbow bent, Bucky pressed the butt of the gun to his shoulder, looked to Steve with another silent nod and then turned his back, his head bowed to scan the doorway. Always ready, always safe. Just in case. 

Bucky needed a fucking cigarette. 

He could hear Steve murmuring to the boy, hear the shaky, scared replies that Steve wouldn’t understand and then there was the sound of scraping. Steve grunted, the boy screamed, and rock slid against wood and bone alike. 

Bucky sunk his teeth into his split lip and swallowed the results of the pain. 

It didn’t take long; Steve was strong, even more so once he set his mind on course. Bucky kept his eyes on the door and didn’t look up as the other man came up beside him, the crying bundle in his arms. No words passed between them, not even a nod, and then they were off, creeping through the night with Bucky’s gun trailing doorways and shadows and Steve whispering to the child to be quiet. Bucky translated where he could, but the wounded young man wasn’t listening. 

Peter and Morita had beaten them back by minutes. They stood by the doorway to the hall, guns at the ready, cigarettes hanging from lips and eyes peeled towards the darkness. Morita spotted them first, the strap on his rifle clunking against the metal as he took aim. Steve stopped them with a word, and they stood to attention as Bucky scraped the mud from his boots on the worn stairs. 

“That’s fucked up,” Peter stated before spitting to the ground in disgust, his eyes on the child. Bucky had to agree, but he kept silent, his attention locked on the horizon. He didn’t want to admit it, but the fight today had him spooked. Out there somewhere was a platoon of Germans strong and good enough to eliminate the rest of his team and they were lusting for blood. Bucky didn’t like it at all. 

Steve said nothing as he carried the kid inside; Bucky followed at his heels, a shiver running up his spine as he took in the room. Soldiers were everywhere, slumped wearily against the walls and across the floor. In the corner, Gabe lay on a spread of blankets, his chest rising and falling slowly while Dum Dum watched over him. Rumlow was in the middle of the room, squatted and fiddling with the dials of their almost-broken radio. The smell of the room was overwhelming; sweat, blood, charcoal and the bitter prang of fear. Bucky didn’t care what anyone said or thought about that. They could call him a true-blooded killer if they wanted. The truth was you could smell fear and taste it clear as day, and here in this room, it hung thickly in the air. 

Eyes turned to look at them, the whimpering of the lad deaf to no one. Rumlow rose, the radio forgotten and approached, his arms crossed over his chest as he took in the scene. Perhaps Bucky thought too little of the other man because Rumlow didn’t say anything. Bucky had expected him to explode, to rage and say that they couldn’t deal with another causality and that they didn’t have enough medical supplies. Bucky had readied himself to argue when Rumlow would say that it was kinder to put the boy out of his misery. 

Instead, Rumlow had offered up his personal blanket before heating water to wash at the boy’s wounds. He had even tried to tend to the lad himself, his words soft and his demeanour open and unthreatening, but it did little to help. 

The lad wouldn’t let anyone near him. As soon as Rumlow or one of the soldiers came close, he would start yelling and crying in Russian, his arms pushing and shoving, his fingers like claws. Rumlow threw his hands in the air, exasperated, and turned on his heels, muttering something under his breath. 

It took Bucky the better part of half an hour to calm the lad down, and even then, it was only due to their shared language that Bucky could get close. Steve, though; well, he had the open kindness that made people want to open up to him, and the lad took an instant shining to the man who’d pulled him free of his hellish prison. 

“See to him,” Bucky told Steve once the chaos had settled. 

“But you-”

“I can take care of myself,” Bucky interrupted. Besides, it was better that way. He wasn’t too sure if he could deal with Steve’s hands-on him right now, even if it were solely in the name of mending. 

Bucky didn’t give the other man time to protest before he walked away. He could feel Steve’s eyes on his back, watching his every move even as he breached the gap between himself and the troops and asked Peter for supplies. The 181st didn’t carry much; minimal guns and ammo, a handful of first aid supplies and knickknacks that could be turned into explosives. Nothing practical like a kerosene stove or a pot. They lived off the land, survived off what the forest could feed them and took what they could carry from the dead. Bucky would have been fine going outside and foraging for himself, but he was too tired to deal with the hissyfit Steve would put up in protest. 

He sat away from the group, his shirt off and his white fur pelt wrapped around his shoulders. He used Peter’s small burner to melt clean snow in a cup as he flicked a needle made for leather through the gas flame. The tip glowed red, sterile and clean, and Bucky kept it in his left hand. With the cup against his ribs, he let the melted snow, still cold, wash over the graze the bullet had carved in his skin, his face screwing up at the pain. His blood stained the water, running down his side to pull on the floor by his feet. It stained the top of his pants.

As he had thought, the wound was a clean one; long but neat and not deep enough to expose the bone. Just another scratch in the line of duty; a story to compare later in life and a scar to haunt his dreams. 

Robotically, Bucky pulled a small packet out of his pants pocket and ripped it open with his teeth. Leaning back slightly, he sprinkled the Sulphanilamide across the wound, the white powder sticking to his damp skin. It would probably do little now, so long after taking the injury, but Bucky was willing to go on a little faith. Medics and doctors called the stuff a miracle powder, saying that it cauterized veins to halt bleeding while fighting against the threat of infection; who was Bucky to stand against their well-practised medical findings.

Once that was done, he took the thread from his pocket and used his teeth to severe a decent length. His hand shook slightly as he worked to feed it through the eye of the needle. Bucky closed his eyes for a moment, seeing the flash of guns against white snow and then red as Karpov fell; as the rest of his team was cut down like minks in the forest. 

Snapping his eyes open, he took the needle in his right hand and breathed in deep, noting the steadiness of the limb. He was fine; he would be fine, and he wouldn’t let something so simple defeat him. This was war; unit or not; he had his orders. That was to get these men out and carry on the reputation of the 181st Division. 

Besides, the first stitch always hurt the most, and after that, it was all consequential. 

Bucky’s mind flashed back to his training, the memory making him shiver. It was the last week, the 181st deemed ready for deployment and merely biding their time before assignments. That was when Karpov had gotten creative. Their last exercise as a group was Unaccompanied Survival, as the man put it. To be able to inject yourself with steroids, to know the feel of needle and thread in a wound and to be able to stomach pulling it through. 

Bucky still had the scars across his left arm from where he had learnt to sew up wounds drawn on with ink. 

Without thought, he cast his eyes down, found the start of the wound in his side, and pressed the needle in underneath. Hooking it in further, he steadied the flap of skin and pushed the point upwards before pulling the thread all the way through. The knot stopped on the underside, and Bucky dabbed at the blood with a strip of cloth. 

Across the room, he heard Peter curse and Rollins mutter something about Bucky not being human. 

Bucky ignored them and kept going, his hand slowly getting steadier the further he went. Stitch after stitch, dab after dab and slowly the wound pulled closed. He tied it off securely and cut the end threads with his black knife. As he reached for a bandage, he caught the eye of Peter, who was sitting there next to Morita and staring with his mouth open. Morita watched with morbid fascination, and despite himself, Bucky couldn’t help but think that maybe Morita was more cut out for the life of a 181st than he was. 

He tied the bandage off and dropped the needle into the cup of remaining snow. It came to the boil, the water turning pink as the needle went red and the blood came off. That was the other thing; cleanliness was a matter of survival and was one of the first things drilled into their heads. Be the killer, be justice in the dark, but always take the time to clean blade and gun, needle and cloth. Blood could do a lot of things. It rusted knives and made triggers stick; it caused infection and sickness, so never leave it on your clothes or medical equipment. 

With shaking hands and thick feeling fingers, Bucky fished around in his discarded jacket pocket, pulling out the crumpled pack of foreign cigarettes he had taken from the dead German. He tapped one out of the hole in the top, grabbed it with his teeth and yanked it free from the pack. Finding his lighter seemed far too daunting a task right now, so Bucky lit the end by leaning forward and sticking the cigarette right into the flames of the gaslighter. He sucked the flame into the tip and felt himself almost instantly relax as that first wave of nicotine hit. 

Steve was there when Bucky finished, his brow furrowed in concern and the line of his lips clearly worried. Bucky offered the other man a smile, and a casual lift of the eyebrow as smoke trailed from between his lips.

“Those things will kill ya,” Steve said casually. 

Bucky merely smiled again, his teeth holding the cigarette in place. “Lots of things will.”

Bucky didn’t understand his life; he didn’t understand why they had turned him into what he was or why the other’s hated him for his abilities. But he did understand one thing, and he understood it well. If he crumbled and showed weakness, then it was as good as a death sentence to the others. He was the cold one, the killer and the demon; if he broke down over the death of his own unit, then the others would follow. They would think about Phillips and Gabe and all the others that had been taken away from them. They would think that all was lost, that they had been left to rot and that they were going to die. 

Damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. On one hand, Bucky was a monster and on the other he was seen as their strength. Only he and Steve seemed to understand that, and it was a weight and burden that Bucky had to bear, like it or not. 

“Are you ok?” Steve asked for the second time that night. Bucky did as he always did and nodded while plucking the heated needle from the water and grabbing a thinner roll of thread. He had to patch up his uniform. It wasn’t a matter of pride or vanity; if he left the hole open, then that exposed his wound to the elements, and that was asking for trouble. 

Steve knelt down in front of him, his knees creaking in the cold and his head bowed so he could catch Bucky’s eyes. “You’ll tell me,” he said simply though it was laced with insecurity and no hint of an order. 

Bucky blinked and looked up, taking the smoke from his mouth with his fingers. “I’m fine.”

Steve shook his head at that, inching even closer and Bucky wondered what the other’s saw. He was pretty sure that they knew, that they had somehow picked up on the strange relationship that their leader had with him, the killer. 

Karpov had, and Bucky had been ready to be shot on the spot. That honestly might have been easier than listening to Karpov praising Bucky’s quick thinking and telling him that physical sacrifices and seduction wasn’t just a woman’s art. 

He’d find no acceptance there, but at least he wasn’t about to get shipped to a gulag camp for crimes against his gender. At least not while on active duty.

“I mean… You’ll tell me what happened, right? What you saw?”

Bucky dropped the needle. It sounded loud in the room. Not that it was quiet, but at that moment all that existed to Bucky was him, Steve and those words that hung between them, threatening to bring up memories best forgotten. 

Steve picked up the needle and placed it back in Bucky’s hand, his fingertips brushing against Bucky’s palm and for a moment, just a moment, he took Bucky’s hand in his and squeezed. 

Bucky pulled away first and shoved the cigarette back between his lips. 

“You need to talk about it,” Steve said softly. Bucky was thankful for that. “You need deal with it, and you can’t do that alone.”

“And you’ll talk about Phillips?” Bucky retorted, the words snappy and aimed to hurt. He didn’t understand why, but he felt it an important point to make. Steve, however, just took it in his stride, his face barely registering the pain as he nodded and breathed out a ‘yes’. That, right there, was what Bucky knew made a leader. He may not call Steve ‘Sir’, and he may not follow his every order like one of the other men, but Steve had the spirit and will for command, and for the first time in his life, Bucky was drawn to that authority. 

All Bucky could do was nod then. If Steve was willing to relive the painful memories for his sake, then who was he to argue a willing ear?

“Come on,” Steve finished, rising to his feet and offering his hand down to Bucky. Bucky looked at his uniform, and Steve laughed. “That can wait. Right now, I need your input. I’ve heard news on the radio.”

With a sigh, Bucky tossed the shirt over his shoulder, pushed the needle into the base of his fur pelt and dropped the butt of his cigarette into the cup of water. It hissed as it died, just like a man taking a bullet. He took the offered hand. Steve hauled him easily off the floor, not missing the slight murmur Bucky let out as his side burnt, nor the way Bucky favoured his left leg as he stood. 

Wordlessly, Bucky followed Steve to the other side of the room, where their Captain had set up quarters. He had an old crate as a table and used a small pot to burn a warming fire. Rumlow was there, as was Peter and Morita. Dugan was off to the left, close enough to hear but still attending to Gabe. 

“Listen up,” Captain Steve Rogers said, his finger tracing a line across a section of map on the makeshift table. His eyes looked hollow in the firelight. Bucky sat himself down on the floor, his legs crossing under him as he pulled the shirt from his shoulder. He was there simply because Steve had asked him to be, yet that didn’t quell the sensation of not being fully welcomed by the others. 

“This is the situation. Operation Insight worked, we can be proud of that, but it is nothing but a ripple right now. The Germans are advancing; word has it,” he waved his arm towards the radio beside him. As if in response the device let out a crackling sound and a voice carried, the man muffled in volume but Bucky clearly heard the word ‘Moscow’. “They are marching on Moscow. Skirmishes have broken out all the way up to Finland, and,” Steve sighs, “the Fins have joined the Axis powers.” 

Bucky sighed quietly and nibbled on his bottom lip. That wasn’t good news for his country, though honestly, the Soviets should have seen the alliance coming. 

“Do we have new orders to engage?” Rumlow asked. He moved in to stand on the right of Steve – his rightful place – and folded his arms over his chest. 

Steve shook his head. “No. I can’t get through to anyone to ask for confirmation. We’re well out of signal range. At least for our own direct frequencies.”

“So we have to get somewhere civilised to call for extraction,” Rumlow continued, and Steve nodded. 

The Howling Commands had no current orders – at least no way to receive them – so the previous end of mission orders still stood. Extract. Get out. Go home and wait for redeployment. But how were they meant to do that with fights breaking out across the borders and the major capitols? They were trapped, fenced in and stuck, and in no condition to battle their way out. German stood between them and civilised Russia, and East was nothing but mind-numbing snow and the rallying Japanese. 

“Re-con,” Bucky suggested when no one else spoke, his shoulders shrugging easily. He didn’t look up from his uniform, the needle passing through the material as easily as it had through his skin, but he could feel the others looking at him. Maybe they thought it wasn’t his place to make suggestions, or maybe they were mad that he had caught onto the underlying implications in Steve’s words long before them. “I’ll scout a way through. There have to be weaknesses; I’ll find them.”

“You can’t kill everyone, Soldat,” was Rumlow’s snarky reply. The older man scoffed and diverted his eyes, an action so dismissive Bucky raised an eyebrow despite not looking up.

“Bet ya he could.” It was Peter who spoke, and maybe Bucky was crazy, but he was sure he picked out a trace of admiration in the other’s tone. “Barnes’ a one-man fucking army, right?” the other man continued to jest, his elbow jabbing out at Morita to try and get him in on the joke. 

Bucky wasn’t amused and shot them a look that said as much before turning back to his mending. 

“Enough,” Steve spared him from saying something himself. 

“I didn’t mean it bad,” Peter protested, and again Bucky got that sneaking suspicion that Peter, misguided as he was in his youth, was one of the only people who looked at him and saw a hero instead of a murderer. Bucky didn’t know which was worse. 

“I said enough!”

“Yes, sir!” Peter bowed his head and lowered his eyes. Morita did the same as if the order stretched to the both of them.

Bucky merely pushed the needle through another torn flap of material and pulled. 

“What I suggest is that we move inland,” Steve started, the words slow as he looked between them all, gauging their reactions. Bucky concentrated on his sewing. “We’re no good on the front line right now, but if we sit here, we are as good as dead. We’ll cut our way north-east, find somewhere defensible to hole up until we’re rested. Then we can head for Moscow; either join the fight or find a way out from there.”

No one argued. They offered their opinion and thoughts and then after a moment suggested routes they could take to the coast. 

It was decided. They would move out in the morning, and they left no man – or child – behind. They would strike north east and head for Arkhangelsk in hopes of finding refuge or a boat. It would take them close to a month to march, longer with the wounded, and in that time they could reassess their situation and decide their course. 

Bucky thought it was as good a plan as any. He tried to think like Karpov, tried to understand how the other man’s mind would have worked when faced with this situation. Part of him hated it, told him that they were running away and that they were giving themselves a death sentence with the month-long march, but the other saw the intelligence in it. None of them was in a position to fight, not even Bucky. The memories of his skirmish with the Germans were still in his mind. That had been messy and sloppy; a disgrace to his training. Sure, he had won, but the battle should have been quicker, he should have used his resources and never should have come face to face with a gun. His moves should have been swifter, his blows aimed to kill, not hurt and there was no way, not in a million years, that his training had given him leeway to slice the enemy up like bread. 

It had been wrong and, deep down in that part of himself that he didn’t like to acknowledge and never wanted to voice, he knew that he wouldn’t sleep tonight. 

And that scared him, made his hands shake just at the thought of another enemy encounter. 

“I’ll take watch,” he volunteered while pulling his mended shirt over his head. He had to get out of there for a bit; give himself time to think. Fixing the fur over his shoulders and shrugging into the warmth, he stood. Steve moved just as fast. 

“No.” Steve said the word a little too quickly; Peter and Morita exchanged a look, and Rumlow rolled his eyes. Bucky stood his ground, but so did Steve. That was one of the few similarities they had; they were both stubborn to a fault. “You’re wounded.”

“We all are.” It was a simple answer, used to brush aside both the command and the worry, and Bucky walked away before Steve could say more. He crossed the room, his eyes roaming over Gabe and the lad. The stench of death hung heavily in the air, and not just a small part of him feared what the morning would bring. 

Scooping up his rifle, Bucky slung it over his shoulder and made his way to Dum Dum. A small bag was wrenched from one of the many pockets of Bucky’s combat pants, and he placed it into Dum Dum’s hands. 

“For the boy; for the pain,” he said simply. “Boil it into a tea and make sure he drinks it. Give it to Gabe if he wakes.” Dugan took the pouch with a nod and a half-salute, muttering words of thanks as he reached for a steel mug. 

Steve cut Bucky off at the door, his face set into a frown and his arms crossed. “Bucky, you need rest.”

Bucky shook his head and patted the other on the arm. It was easier if he dealt with this with an air of nonchalance. “Your men need it more.”

“I’m not arguing about this,” Steve hissed, and Bucky didn’t bother to take a step back as the other got in his face. 

“Neither am I.”

“You’re not going on watch.”

Bucky smiled then, bitter and sarcastic and in his own way, it was his outlet. None of this was Steve’s fault; he knew that, but right now, Steve was that preverbal punching bag that Bucky needed. 

“With all due respect, _Captain_ , I’m not yours to command. So how about you go get some rest while I fulfil my last orders; keeping you and your men alive.” 

He left it at that, biting back further words and simply brushed past the stunned looking soldier, his shoulder catching Steve in the arm as he went. He shut the door behind him, closing the conversation once and for all. If they had been alone, Bucky knew that Steve would have burst through, ranting and raving and raging at Bucky and the argument would have continued, but with his men looking on, Steve was stuck, and that allowed Bucky his freedom. Sure, Steve would probably bring it up again later when they were alone, but with a month’s worth of hiking and only Bucky as scout, that wasn’t likely to happen any time soon. 

He walked past the men who guarded the door, nodding his head slightly as he went and then followed the boot prints of the border sentry. When he found him, he tapped him on the back, muttered something about relieving his watch, and sent the man on his way. There was a warm hall with shelter from the elements, food and camaraderie waiting for that soldier and he seemed all too happy to comply. 

Bucky took up his post for the night, his back to the world of the living and his body facing those that had died during the day. 

Alone in the darkness, Bucky allowed himself to feel. He shook for hours, not from cold but from fear and pain. Everyone he had known was dead; every one he had pulled from the ground when they were too tired to run anymore would never rise again. The man he had hated as much as he credited for his survival was dead. Lost in the snow and Bucky hadn’t even had the chance to get their dog tags. 

The forest held their ghosts, told their story and provided them with their final resting place. Even his enemies. No one would bury those he had killed today; there was no one left; Bucky had seen to that. The survivors of Phillips’ Howling Commandos hadn’t even spared them the time of day before moving out, yet now, with darkness closing in, Bucky did. He wasn’t religious – no one could be in war, especially a Soviet – and yet he offered words on their behalf, just as he whispered for Steve and Gabe, for the boy they had found and even Rumlow. Maybe there was a god and maybe there wasn’t but Bucky hoped that someone would watch over them and see them to the end of their course. 

No one came to relive him, and for that, he was thankful. Once the shaking had subsided, Bucky had walked, back and forth until his shoes no longer sunk in the mud. He watched and patrolled, his eyes heavy but never missing a thing. Branches swayed, wild dogs barked, and a wolf circled, eyeing him and weighing him up. Meat versus the effort and somehow Bucky was found too much of a challenge. It slinked off into the shadows, its baying all that remained once the sun came up. 

Noise came from behind him, the stirring of life at the end of a night that spoke only of death. Bucky had his supplies, had his few possessions on him, so he stayed until the last moment; patrolled until there was nothing left to protect. 

Gabe had died that night, silent and unnoticed and beside him, the maimed young man had wept. When Bucky re-joined the group, ever aware of Steve’s watchful gaze, he realised two things; there was no god and death wasn’t just in the distance, it was all around them. 

* * *

**Part III Preview**

“I said, back off.”

“And I said–”

“Don’t go there,” Bucky cut in, not letting the other finish his retort. Rumlow’s face went red, and Bucky smiled, dark and wild. He couldn’t help himself.

He saw the blow coming, saw the way that Rumlow riled himself up – like a horologist winding up cogs – just as he saw the other man’s first swing towards his face. Maybe it was insane, and maybe it was masochistic, but Bucky let it happen. He could have stopped it, could have moved out of the way or blocked the erratic, hate-fuelled blow easily, but he didn’t. He took the punch square in the jaw, his head snapping to the side and blood exploding from his barely healed lip. 

He told himself that he took the punch to justify retaliation, but in reality, he took it to feel alive. 


	3. Part III - Head for the hills; pick up steel on your way

**Part III**

_Head for the hills; pick up steel on your way_

*****

Hearts heavy, they walked out of another village, the frozen forest all that they could see. 

It had been the same story for days now. One place the same as the last. Each one deserted, each one scattered with shell casings and reeking of snow extinguished fire. Day after day, the Howling Commandos trudged, heads down and morale low. They took turns in carrying the crippled boy – whose name was Pietro – until Peter had managed to rig up a makeshift sled using old bits of cloth and tree branches. Bucky had offered up his length of rope – standard issue for all 181st’s – and that had made going easier. 

The boy remained silent, only sobbing at night, crying out in pain as his toboggan hit a bump or occasionally, very occasionally, talking at Steve. That was how they had discovered his name, though no one bothered to try and uncover anything else about him. 

Bucky distanced himself even further. He spent his time alone, striking out in front and scouting the area. He kept to himself, a silent watcher in the night who belonged to the darkness more than the flicking life of the campfires they bravely built. 

Not that it spared him from the others. There was talk, still rumours of his deeds and actions and his inability to feel. Rollins was the worst, followed closely by Rumlow. They came with whispered words of detest and disproval spilling from their lips when they thought Bucky couldn’t hear. Bucky didn’t care; he told himself that it was pointless to care, yet it didn’t make the suspicious glances any easier to bear. 

The others were slowly warming up to Bucky; that much was apparent even to him. Peter followed him like a lost puppy, always volunteering for the same watch shifts or striking out into the cold at Bucky’s heels. Where Peter went, Morita followed, and somehow, they managed to make a team of three. It was a strange one, but Bucky could see the odd rationality in it. The Russian, the Japanese and the kid; they were the most obvious outcasts. 

It also seemed that it was easier on the Commandos having only one of the ‘inhuman’ Commies in their midst. Or maybe Bucky was proving himself as a mortal as the march progressed. He got tired, just like anyone else, and on day two, he had been lost and confused, the lack of sleep and loss of blood wearing at his mind. 

At night, when Bucky still couldn’t sleep, and ghosts haunted his vision, he told himself that it was none of the above. They just liked having someone expendable. Someone willing to risk a gamble on life versus death and go out ahead to make sure that their path was clear.

Or maybe it was also the fact that they _had_ to like Bucky, or at least tolerate him. Steve had lost his steely nerve when it came to the two of them. He no longer hid the glances and words, no longer tried to cover his concern or thoughts with the tone of a leader. When they stopped in long destroyed villages, with no threat to be seen, Steve didn’t care who saw them breaking away to enter into an empty house. 

Yet still, when they came across villages, it was Bucky that entered first. Peter always close behind. 

It was the same when they came to the third cluster of huts since committing to their course. Bucky had found the place first, of course, and had doubled back over his own footsteps to warn the others of what was on the horizon. 

They had slid through the bushes as a single unit, stomachs wet as snow seeped through clothing. They left only Rollins and Dum Dum behind with Pietro and their pile of dwindling supplies. 

Crouched low with his eyes peering over a fallen log, Bucky had shouldered in next to Steve. Smoke still rose from the steeple of the village church and Bucky cast an apprehensive look towards his companion. Steve raised an eyebrow in kind, and Bucky resolved himself to his fate. 

His black knife slipped silently from its sheath as Bucky withdrew from the log, already plotting his path to the closest building. 

“Not alone,” Steve hissed, but Bucky was already weaving his way forward, knife in hand and blue eyes looking for movement. He worked better alone; besides, the others had all the tactical grace and stealth of a band of hydrated elephants charging at water. Peter especially. It drove Bucky mad. 

Behind him, he heard the click of Steve’s rifle and the shuffle of the others as they prepared to offer what Bucky hoped would be cover fire. 

Each step Bucky took had his heart beating faster and faster. He darted behind trees, paused; waited; gripped his knife tighter and then moved again. No bullets came, not from the snowy woods or the smoking village. When he got his back pressed against the stone of a farmhouse, Bucky was sure the deafening beat of his heart was going to give him away. Loud enough to announce his arrival, it pounded in his chest like a racehorse left to run free. He wanted to stay right there, with his back covered and his legs trembling and his hand shaking around the hilt of his knife. It felt safe, protected and both were strange feelings that Bucky wished he could be better acquainted with. Instead, all he had was the fear and a dull sense of burning that he knew all too well; Steve trailed him with his eyes from across the open field, and Bucky could feel that gaze like the touch of Steve’s hand. 

Knowing that the longer he delayed the inevitable, the harder it would be – and the more concerned Steve would get – Bucky sucked in a deep breath through his mouth and pushed himself away from the wall. He ran in a crouch, his back hunched over and his feet silent in the mud as he took the first corner. 

Nothing. 

Nothing moved, nothing stirred. No sound other than the crackling of a fire that still smouldered off to his left. He could see tracks in the mud, old and filled with water and flecks of white. Shell casing littered the ground. It was the same story as every other village and town they had come across; silent, still and unmoving like the grave. 

Bucky took his time. He couldn’t sweep the whole place, not alone – the town was bigger than most with at least twenty-six rooves standing dark against the sky – but he could search for signs of life on the open streets and pinpoint where the Commandos should sweep first. 

There were none, and it gave Bucky the spooks. 

There was something different about the silence of the buildings, something he hadn’t come across before in the trail of ruined homes that highlighted their march. It was eerie, like death still lingered and ghostly eyes kept watch. It made the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck stand on end and sent a chill running down his spine. All he wanted was to shoulder his rifle and run for the hills. 

He searched the closest houses, fear playing tricks with his mind even as he kept his face impassive, his features schooled into the look of a hardened soldier. Empty. Even his generally silent footsteps seemed to echo in the deathly stillness of it all. 

Finally, he returned to where he had started, his shoulders back against that wall that now felt so strangely secure and relished in the heat of Steve’s attention. 

Bucky whistled out a bird call, and from the white, he saw Steve lead the others forward. They had their stronghold, a series of buildings that Bucky knew to be safe; they could sweep the rest of the town from there. 

“Fan out,” Steve ordered as they slid up to Bucky’s position. It was the same for every village they came across. Search and secure before pillaging for food and supplies. “Cover everything; rendezvous here in twenty.” They all nodded silently, the route so ingrown that none needed further instructions. Bucky’s right eye twitched as they started, trying to be stealthy and about as silent as a helicopter in the night. At least it would flush the enemy out more so then a lone figure moving soundlessly through the shadows.

The rest repeated the words – “Yes Sir” – and Bucky moved out mutely, with them and yet never part of them. He detached from the group halfway down the main street, his shoes ghosting over a pebbled path between buildings built too tight and into a darkness that none of the others would dare walk. 

Somehow it felt different with the rest of Steve Rogers’s men in the same place. When Bucky had snuck in alone, he had been terrified. But now with the rest of the soldiers traversing the seared town, Bucky felt more afraid and yet somehow calm. The noise of shoes and rifles rubbing against uniforms was enough to drive Bucky insane, but at least it gave the burnt-out buildings life. 

In a way, it made Bucky more deadly and caused his hands to stop shaking. When the shit hit the fan, he would be the one detached, silent and unnoticed with his reflexes in full swing. _That_ was what he was trained to do.

Wandering between the darkened buildings, he lost track of time. Part of him knew that he was pushing Steve’s timeframe, but it wasn’t in him to do half a job. If Steve decided to call for rest in what remained of this town, then Bucky was going to make sure that it was clear, that no enemies were lurking undetected, waiting for their time to strike. 

House after house, shop after shop; he worked his way down the roads with careful precision. In one door and out the other, cover his tracks and keep his eyes on his back as much as his front. He wished that Karpov was there, or one of the other 181st’s. Someone he trusted to watch his back. He trusted Steve – with his life even – but there was a difference. The Spetsnaz were a unified body. They walked the same, talked the same, thought the same. They watched each other’s backs without fear. When it came to Steve, Bucky always found himself on edge, worried and nauseous as he tried to be too many things at once. The protector, the leader, the follower and the scout. There was not enough room for precise rationality when Steve was involved. 

That was how he found them. Head down, and on high alert, Bucky stepped around a corner, intending to sweep the church as the last building on his path, but the sound stopped him dead in his tracks.

Later he knew he would belittle himself on being caught unawares. He should have been able to hear the fight or hell, if he was as inhuman as Rollins seemed to think, then he should have been able to sense the other presence. Feel the fear and the anger in the air like summer rain. Yet he hadn’t, and for the first time in his life, Bucky’s body was that frozen that he stopped in shock. 

It all happened in a split second. Bucky rounded the corner, saw Rumlow there and saw the girl all in the same instant. Then he took in the details; the tear lines across her cheeks, her dishevelled red hair, the way that Rumlow wrenched at her arms to pull her closer and the slack way that his pants hung on his hips, unbuttoned. 

That was all Bucky needed. 

“Rumlow!” Bucky yelled, the name an order within itself. 

Rumlow paused, his head whipping backwards to glare at Bucky over his shoulder. It gave the girl the opening she needed. A swift kick and she was scurrying back as Rumlow all but hopped on one foot, clutching at his shin. 

Bucky stepped forward, his face grim and slowly circled his way between Rumlow and the girl. He’s already assessed her. If she had a weapon, he was sure she would have already used it on her attacker. 

“What are you doing, Rumlow?” he asked with a shake of his head. 

Rumlow snarled, his hand rubbing at his leg and eyes like fire. “Go do your fucking job, Barnes.”

Bucky laughed. It was a bitter, cynical sound; nothing more than a rumble in the back of his throat as his shoes twisted into the mud, getting a proper foothold. He wanted to say that he was doing his job, that his place was here between Rumlow and his idiocy and desires. That he was the good soldier by defending those who needed mercy. He even wanted to counteract the command with one of his own, tell Rumlow to get his wits about him and actually scout the rest of the town as instructed. Rationality suggested that if there was one survivor, then there would be another, so why wasn’t Rumlow carrying out the orders given by his Captain? That then made Bucky almost growl; this wasn’t his platoon; they weren’t his soldiers, and no amount of snarled orders from Rumlow was going to change that or make him turn a blind eye to what he had seen. 

He wanted to say so much, and yet the words failed him in his anger. So Bucky stood, still and resolute even as the girl sobbed silently behind him. 

There must have been something in his face – Bucky was never good at hiding his contempt – that made Rumlow snap. Fumbling with his breeches, the other man spat to the ground, stepped forward and shoved at Bucky with all his might. Bucky took it, his feet kicking up mud as he slid back but he stood his ground again, glaring the other man down. 

“She’s a fucking Kraut,” Rumlow yelled, and Bucky saw red. They had called him killer and murderer, cold and heartless and with no remorse and yet there was Rumlow, his breeches undone and a defenceless girl cowering on the ground. All because he thought she was the enemy. 

It made Bucky sick to the stomach. 

“Back the fuck off.” It wasn’t yelled out or spat, not harsh and commanding and with no words accentuated. It was a simple sentence that carried more of a threat in the controlled tones than any outburst of anger; it made Rumlow pause, his chest puffing out in defiance even as he took half a step back. 

“You forget your place, Barnes,” he finally said, and Bucky saw that hint of a leader coming out. It was all in the eyes, in the way his body went taut. Rumlow was used to giving orders and being obeyed. After all, he was a commissioned officer of the American army. 

Rumlow was the definition of the American Jarhead that Karpov had often used to belittle the rest of the 181st’s. Too much braw and not enough brains under a military buzz cut. Karpov had called them useless scum and the Spetsnaz trainees had echoed it back. It didn’t matter that they were on the same side of this war, not when idiocy was involved. 

Bucky didn’t like it. He didn’t take orders from Steve, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to listen to the Captain’s second. He said as much by moving threateningly closer, matching Rumlow’s half step with two of his own. It put them within striking distance, and Bucky felt a small jolt of adrenaline work its way out from his heart. He wouldn’t condone a confrontation, but he’d sure as hell take pleasure in it. 

“I said, back off.”

“And I said–”

“Don’t go there,” Bucky cut in, not letting the other finish his retort. Rumlow’s face went red and Bucky smiled, dark and wild. He couldn’t help himself.

He saw the blow coming, saw the way that Rumlow riled himself up – like a horologist winding up cogs – just as he saw the other man’s first swing towards his face. Maybe it was insane and maybe it was masochistic, but Bucky let it happen. He could have stopped it, could have moved out of the way or blocked the erratic, hate-fuelled blow easily, but he didn’t. He took the punch square in the jaw, his head snapping to the side and blood exploding from his barely healed lip. 

He told himself that he took the punch to justify a retaliation, but in reality, he took it just to feel alive. 

Bucky wasn’t too sure what happened. Something in him just snapped when Rumlow’s fist collided with his cheek. The pain was there, real and throbbing and Bucky registered it all, but after that, there was nothing. 

His black knife was in his hands before he even realised.

Maybe he was itching for combat. Perhaps he was everything that they said he was; a murderer and a demon, a beast unleashed upon the world. But right then and there, he was white, and Rumlow was black, and there was no room for the greyness of neutrality. 

He caught Rumlow’s second attempt at a blow, his left hand quicker than Rumlow’s right ever could be. Grip strong, he wrenched the older man’s hand backwards, tendons straining and bones threatening to snap. Then his knife moved with a life of its own. It sliced across skin, parting it down to the bone as Rumlow’s hand burst out in crimson. It carved a bloody path along the crease of Rumlow’s fingers, cutting right through palm and webbing alike. 

Rumlow screamed in agony and Bucky dropped him to the ground with a knee before he could do any more damage. 

Bucky burnt, the rage bubbling inside of him even as Rumlow used his feet and unwounded hand to scuttle away. The older man swore and hissed, his bleeding hand cradled against his chest and his eyes saying more than his words. Bloody revenge, that was all Bucky could see and hear. 

Bucky didn’t fear it. He showed as much by carelessly flicking the blood from his knife, the spray hitting Rumlow in the face, before wiping it on his sleeve and returning the blade to his sheath. Calm, casual and practised, his eyes trailed from Rumlow’s boots to his panic-stricken face and then turned away, the man before him found to be less than wanting. 

Turning his back to Rumlow in blatant insolence, Bucky crouched down near the girl, not too close as to scare her. Holding out one gloved hand, he beckoned her forward, his German guttural but perfectly fluent. 

“Girl, you are alright,” he said. He offered her a peaceful smile, bowing his head slightly. She didn’t respond, her eyes darting from Rumlow to Bucky and then down to his beltline. Where the knife rested, black handle dramatic against the white of Bucky’s winter uniform. “No one will hurt you. Not the bad man. I will not let him.” 

She looked at him with big eyes, tear-filled and bloodshot, and Bucky couldn’t even begin to understand her fear. That was what no amount of training could beat out of his head; no amount of saluting The Spit could make him forget. This may have been war and innocents would suffer and die, but not by his hand. Karpov could yell and rage all he wanted, scream about women and children carrying bombs into Allied camps, but Bucky had blocked his ears to the rant. Where there were good and innocent people in the world, there was also mercy, and this girl needed that. 

Licking his cold bitten lips, Bucky heard Rumlow scramble to his feet behind him. But the man made no move against him. He was at least slightly smarter than Bucky gave him credit for. The second-lieutenant cursed and spat, muttering something about only spies spoke German and then Bucky heard his staggering footsteps as he hurried away. 

Smiling to the girl, Bucky stole more of her innocence by cursing rather rudely in German, his head jabbing backwards in Rumlow’s direction to emphasise his point. 

That was when she finally smiled, her face lighting up and her eyes dancing slightly. She even managed a giggle and Bucky knew he was on the home stretch. 

“I’m not German,” she finally said, her Russian clean and crisp in the way only a native speaker could manage. “But cursing is all the same.” 

Bucky felt another flare of anger at the revelation, though he carefully kept it at bay so not to frighten the girl. What Rumlow had been about to do was unforgivable, even against the enemy, but Bucky couldn’t help but take it personally when it was against one of own comrades.

Now that the threat was gone, Bucky took the time to look over his young companion. She was a waif of a thing, all pale skin and bones and layers of mismatched clothing keeping her from the cold. Hair red as flame, she had the sharp features of a true Russian with fox-like eyes that spoke of intelligence and lessons hard-won. Bucky had thought her a mere kid at first sight, putting her tiny frame down to youth, but now he could see that he was off by a good five or more years. He picked her for being in her late teens, even if her eyes suggested older. 

She looked half-starved and feral with her soot smudged face and grimy clothes. Given the state of the rest of the town, it didn’t surprise Bucky at all. The fact that she was there and alive did though, and Bucky’s mind raced with how he could gently prod for information. It was then that he remembered the stash of rations he had in his pocket. 

“Hungry?” he asked. With open, obvious movements, he fished around until he found it, smoothed out the crinkled wrapper and then held the army supplied ‘chocolate’ bar out to the girl. It was horrible; all protein and energy, but it was the closest thing that any of them had to indulgence right now. 

The girl scurried forward and snatched the chocolate bar out of Bucky’s hand like a wild animal. 

She didn’t move back once she had it, which Bucky chose to take as a good sign.

Bucky moved instead. Slow and open, he sat back in the mud and raised his right leg, hugging it with his arms and resting his chin on his knees. The girl didn’t startle or run, but she watched him with her dark eyes while her hands ripped at the plastic wrapping of the candy bar. 

“What is your name?” Bucky asked as she gnawed at the corner of the bar with her back teeth. The look on her face showed she didn’t think it was that nice, but, as Bucky has suspected, she seemed hungry enough to eat anything. 

“Wanda.” It was just a name, a one-worded reply, but Bucky smiled. It was still a reply; still an opening of communication. 

“Wanda,” Bucky repeated. “I’m James,” he said, his hands crossing at the wrists and his hands wrapping around the top of his boot. It felt odd giving his actual birth name. Generally, it was ‘Barnes’ or a codename of sorts, especially since his name gave away his immigrant status. No red-blooded Russian had the name ‘James’, but Bucky’s American mother had trumped his second-generation Romanian father in the name giving department. Bucky loved his parents, but their choice had marked him as an outsider his entire life. 

He moved his head, his cheek resting on the raised knee as he watched her frown at his name. “James Barnes,” he added, “but friends call me Bucky.” That wasn’t entirely a lie. Bucky didn’t have friends, but if he had, he would have insisted on using the nickname – like Steve did – even if it was even less Russian than _James_. 

“Bucky,” she repeated, her mouth stumbling over the unknown sounds and showing white teeth blackened with protein-filled chocolate. “Bucky Barnes,” she tried again before turning her attention back to the candy bar. 

“Nice to meet you, Wanda. Is this your town?” he asked. 

She nodded her head at that, her jaw stopping in its desperate chewing and Bucky saw the traces of tears starting in her eyes. It made his heart break and made Wanda look every bit the child that Bucky had first assumed. 

“It is alright,” he said. It wasn’t, but Bucky also wasn’t the best for dealing with a terrified young woman. “You don’t need to talk.” 

Silence hung between them, long and immeasurable as she continued to chew on the pitiful rations. She still didn’t move, didn’t run and yet didn’t come closer and Bucky stayed just as still. A statute frozen in the snow and mud. 

“Do you want to stay here?” He finally asked. Wanda shook her head furiously, her mattered red hair clinging to the wetness of her cheeks. “Do you want to come with me?” Bucky continued, pretty much certain that the girl wouldn’t speak again. To this, she nodded, slow and hesitant and not at all certain, but it was still a nod. Bucky offered her a smile as she finished off the last of the protein bar. “I will keep you safe,” Bucky added, “I won’t let him near you again.”

He moved slower than he ever had, leisurely uncurling his arms and pushing himself to his feet. He towered over her, but she didn’t retreat; merely followed his every movement with those dark eyes that looked like they belonged to a beast awaiting slaughter. 

“Stay close to me,” Bucky said. He had expected a nod, a silent sign of understanding. What he got instead was a small but strong hand thrust into his own, the chocolate wrapper long since dropped to the ground and the press of a petite, fragile body against his side. 

Bucky smiled down at her and closed his hand around her own. Wanda seemed to like that. 

“Don’t be scared,” Bucky added as they started walking. Steve’s men weren’t going to like this, not one bit, but if they wanted Bucky’s help, then they would deal, and they would keep their eyes and hands away from the girl. He knew he could win Steve over easily enough, and Peter and the others, at least until they found an untouched village they could leave her in.

They moved through the streets, Wanda jumping at the smallest of sounds. It made that hand in Bucky’s tighten, the long fingers clenching with surprising strength. Bucky squeezed back and talked nonsense to help keep her calm.

Peter saw them pass and Bucky didn’t miss the way the kid’s eyebrows rose and how his elbow jabbed out to prod Morita in the ribs. Wanda scuttled closer, and Bucky moved them on quickly. They weren’t going to be a problem, not with Peter and his strange tinge of misguided hero worship that he had going on. 

It was Rumlow that Bucky was worried about. Him and Rollins. They travelled in a flock, circling in and minds calculating, and Bucky knew he would be getting even less sleep from now on. 

What surprised Bucky the most was when they finally found Steve. The older man was standing in the middle of the muddy road, his eyes flicking back and forth. His gun was lowered though his face showing all the lines of horror and revulsion as he took in the destroyed homes that made up their surroundings. He seemed to be able to sense Bucky – something that Bucky was not at all comfortable with – and turned.

When he saw Wanda, he didn’t even blink. Blue eyes looked from Bucky to the girl, then back to Bucky, and then a smile broke over his face. Bucky readied himself for the questions, yet they never came. Instead, Steve did just as Bucky had done, his knees bending as he lowered his huge body down to a nonthreatening height and offered Wanda a smile. 

“Hello,” he said, obviously not realising that the girl had no clue what he was saying. “So you are the reason I haven’t been able to find him.” 

Wanda didn’t like that. Not at all. She clung to Bucky’s hand that tightly that he was sure it was going to leave a bruise and then stepped in behind him, putting Bucky between herself and Steve. 

“She’s Russian, Steve.” That had the other man’s attention though Bucky couldn’t understand why. Maybe the others found it easy to forget that they were on foreign soil. His eyes flicked up to Bucky’s, all questions and yet no accusations, but Bucky saw the way Steve’s mouth twitched. Bucky shook his head and couldn’t help himself; he took a small step to the side, better shielding the young woman with his body. 

Steve’s silent questions turned into a look of hurt. 

“You’ve really gotta stop picking up strays,” Steve said, eyeing the young girl with a quirked eyebrow. Yet his tone wasn’t reprimanding; it was understanding and reflected a kindness that didn’t exist in the heart of many soldiers. They were silly words, a jest that held no real mirth, but Bucky knew that he had Steve’s support. The girl would stay, and Steve would be getting as little sleep as Bucky would. 

Bucky shrugged, a large grin spreading across his face; he turned his head and let the young Russian girl see the smile as well. He squeezed her hand slightly in a way he hoped was comforting and not at all threatening. She seemed to get the hint, a ghost of a smirk crossing those chapped lips and Bucky’s smile only broadened when she squeezed his hand back. She even dared a step away from his back, getting closer to Steve in the process, her eyes huge and wide as she took the both of them in with calculating detail beyond her age. 

“I can’t help it,” Bucky admitted. He couldn’t, either. Not with the likes of Rumlow tramping around doing things in the name of his country. His country had nothing to do with what he was planning for the young woman and Bucky would be having further words with him about conduct befitting a soldier. He’d beat it into the other man if he had to. 

“Her name is Wanda,” Bucky told Steve and, much like Bucky had, Steve said the name out loud as if seeing how it tasted. Wanda giggled and Steve, for all the damn worries in the world, actually pouted. He looked to Bucky as if asking what he had done wrong and Bucky merely shook his head and grinned.

“Wanda,” Bucky caught the young girl’s attention before switching back to their mother tongue. “This is Captain Steve Rogers. He’s a good man.” 

“What did you say?” Steve asked. His Russian was almost non-existent, though his German and French were passable even to Bucky’s well-trained ear. 

“I told her that your Russian sucks.”

Steve had the decency to look offended, and Bucky couldn’t help but snort. 

As much as Bucky didn’t want to damper the oddly happy moment, there were more pressing matters at hand. The fight with Rumlow was still hot in Bucky’s mind, and while he had no fears of Steve court-martialling him for attacking one of his officers, he had to get in before Rumlow found his captain and cried victim. 

“What happened to your lip?”

“We need to talk about Rumlow,” Bucky said at the same time. Steve’s face darkened at Bucky’s words, his eyebrows furrowing and neither Bucky nor Wanda missed the look that Steve sent in the girl’s direction. Bucky knew the other man too well, knew his skills and abilities, knew the way he would see the tattered clothing and the dark bruises blooming across her skin. What was a simple testimony to a rough war became an instant beacon of the disobedience of his soldiers. 

Bucky knew that Steve understood as he nodded, his lips pressed into a line and his eyes locked with Bucky’s, searching and questioning. 

“She’s alright,” Bucky nodded affirmatively at his own words, “I stopped him before he could do any real harm, but next time I won’t be so gentle.” 

“Can he walk?”

“He shouldn’t be able to,” Bucky muttered under his breath. It earned him a harsh glare from the Captain. “He can. He can even run if need be, but I wouldn’t put any faith in his trigger finger, though I’ve seen him shoot, so it’s no real loss.”

Bucky couldn’t help it; he really couldn’t. Maybe it was his training under Karpov that brought out the sadistic side of him or maybe it was just something that was left there, in his subconscious, from when he was a kid. But he smiled then, much like he had when Rumlow had punched him, and he was beyond thankful that Wanda couldn’t understand English as he spoke. “Or his right hand. I made damn sure he’s going to have serious issues dealing with that hard-on.”

For the first time, Bucky thought he almost understood why he’d been picked him out of the masses for special training. 

*****

It was Bucky who found the truth. Of course it was, and as they stood there, looking on in horror as Bucky stood before the church, Steve almost hated him. 

Ignorance was bliss, they said, and there was nothing that Steve wouldn’t give to have that innocence back. 

They’d been there for hours. No one liked the town, that was clearly obvious, and while no one was game enough to say it out loud, they were spooked even more by Bucky’s little Russian girl coming out of the woodworks. She followed him around silently, her eyes seeing everything and her mouth occasionally moving to speak in a language they didn’t understand. None of them had been through Russian training; they spoke French and Austrian and German, and having the Russian words fill the room reminded the men of the elite escort that they’d lost.

Despite their hesitations, Steve saw the fatigue in his men. They needed rest, somewhere warm and the chance to forage for needed provisions. Winter was well and truly here, and they were finding out just how inadequately supplied they were for the harsh climate. Food was running short, hands blistered from Pietro’s sled, and there wasn’t a single pair of boots that weren’t soaked through and sodden. Well, there was probably one pair. 

And so Steve had called the rest, much like the time before and the time before that. He had sent Peter and Morita to bring in Dum Dum and Rollins, helping to pull Pietro along behind them while the rest went through the routine preparations. They found a large house that was easily fortified and set up lookout posts and perimeters. They built a fire on the stone floor and dug in for the night. 

Steve had been sitting in the corner of the room, the radio in his lap and his hands on the dial, occasionally getting the crackling of a word but never finding a frequency stable enough to try and make contact. The Russian girl, Wanda, sat in the corner by Steve’s right, her legs pulled up and her arms around her knees. Pietro was beside her, and they’d become fast friends, talking in hushed whispers even if Wanda’s eyes never left the door Bucky had existed.

Bucky had headed out on patrol an hour past, without a word to anyone and ignoring the imploring look Steve sent his way, silently asking him to stay in the warmth. Steve was worried. Bucky was doing too much; trying to singlehandedly take on the duties his entire unit had been assigned. He didn’t seem to be sleeping, and when he did, it was fitful and troubled. Steve hadn’t seen him eat; he’d witnessed him sneaking his rations to Pietro, patting the boys head as he gobbled up the meagre food. 

Silently and in the depths of his mind, Steve cursed the Russian girl by his side again. If it weren’t for her then he would be out that door, tracking Bucky down and curse it all to hell, he would damn well drag Bucky – kicking and screaming if need be – to somewhere warm where he could forget his damn orders and just rest. 

But the girl needed Steve, as did Pietro, as did his men, and so Steve stayed, a sigh on his lips, and his attention focused on the radio. 

That was why Steve startled at the voice above him. He hadn’t even heard the footsteps, though that was not at all surprising. 

“Steve.” It was Bucky, and something in the sound of his voice made Steve stop instantly and look up. The other man looked like he was about to be sick. Pale and drawn and sunken eyes in the firelight and Steve wondered if he was only seeing the toll of Bucky’s loss for the first time. 

Bucky had used his head to indicate the door before turning on his heels and walking out. Steve rose, a sense of dread automatically filling his heart. Bucky could have wanted anything, could have been reading Steve’s mind for all Steve knew and could have been calling him outside to find a place they could be alone. 

But Steve knew that would never happen. It wasn’t a part of Bucky, not a part of his duty-flushed mind and it surely wasn’t a part of what fuelled the desperate bleakness of his tone. 

“Dum Dum. Keep her here,” Steve instructed. The girl would hate it, but Steve trusted the burly man with his life. He would look after her, keep Rumlow at bay. His Second had been licking his wounds and skulking with Rollins in a different room, but that didn’t keep them from suspicion.

Steve didn’t wait to see if there was any protest, either from Dum Dum or the girl before following Bucky out. 

Footsteps followed, and Steve noticed Peter grabbing his rifle before trailing behind. He didn’t say a word as he left Morita’s side and was falling into step with Steve before the Captain even had the chance to tell him to stand down. 

And so Bucky had brought them here. He had walked through the streets, his shoulders slumped with his body showing signs of defeat. His gun wasn’t at the ready, his knife wasn’t in his hand; for all his training, Bucky looked like he was just another person, in another life, heading to the local store. 

Steve’s hands had shaken at his side. Smoke still rose from the church, and now he knew – just knew – what they were facing. 

The German’s didn’t like leaving their flanks exposed and they’d always been creative in how to deal with witnesses and potential threats. Steve had heard stories about it, heard horror tales from those claiming to have survived. Hardened soldiers spat to the ground when talking about the war crimes, some whispering that it was a trick the Germans had picked up out of the history of the American war for independence. They said that the Germans learnt everything they knew from the English. 

Bucky led them up the stairs, his footsteps audible for the first time since Steve had known him. He was moving slow, ungracefully like a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Peter followed, and Steve could feel the twitchy tension in the young man even without looking back. 

The doors of the church were open, and Steve could see inside, even in the dead of night. The fires saw to that. 

The sight that greeted them was one Steve knew would never leave his mind. The smell was even worse. 

Bodies were everywhere. The middle of the floor and against the walls, some were on the alter, others cowering under the pews. Steve followed Bucky’s eyes as the other man looked up. One man hung from the rafters, near the steeple window and yet never quite close enough to smash it. Fires still flickered, licking at stone and glass and crackling the piles of wood the Germans had stacked high in the corners. 

They weren’t burnt. Not all of them. The fire hadn’t killed them, but the smoke had. The church was built strong, the foundations stone and maybe God himself watched over the wood. But he hadn’t protected the people. 

Steve and Peter stood at the door. Bucky hung behind, but everything made sense now. The way Bucky looked, the shake in his voice as he had said Steve’s name. Steve knew he had done what neither he nor Peter could; he had braved the threshold and been inside. 

As if to validate that fact, Bucky’s voice floated out from behind, and Steve cringed at the sound. It was so tired, so broken and emotional and something that Steve had never heard from the other man’s lips. 

“I counted fifty-seven,” Bucky told them, and Steve didn’t miss the way that Peter’s body tensed at his stomach. “Men, women, children,” Bucky paused, and Steve imagined that he was wetting his lips in that way he did when he was struggling to find the words. “Twenty-six roofs. Four shops. They killed everyone. The fires. The bodies; I’d say it happened in the last two days.” 

Steve felt like screaming. He didn’t know what; words failed him, but the need to declare his rage was almost undeniable. He could feel it bubbling up inside of him, mixing with the fear that they had been so damn close to the enemy again and not even realised. Did they pass them in the snow or were they marching in the same direction as them? 

Instead, he did what any strong leader should. He swallowed down the hurt and the pain, steeled his features to the carnage in front of him and worked to pull Peter out of his state of shock. 

“Peter,” Steve said softly. The other man managed to find his feet, coming in line with Steve, his eyes wide and yet unmoving from the scene. “Close the doors.” 

Peter faltered; Bucky moved. He brushed between them, taking the last steps one at a time. He took the left door first, pulling it inwards and then closed the right into the middle. It revealed the plank Steve knew had to be there, which Bucky picked up and threaded through the large metal handles. It made Steve’s mind reel. He could see it all, behind eyes he didn’t realise he had closed. The scratching at the doors, the pounding; hear the terrified screaming as smoke and fire set in. 

And he could see the way Bucky would have walked up those stairs, resigned to his fate of being the person to pull the plank of wood free and rest it against the side of the church. To be the first one to look inside, take in the cruelties of war and deal with the horrors in silence. On his own. 

Steve pressed his lips together and forced his eyes open, not able to deal with the mental images any longer. 

When Bucky turned around, the locked doors to his back and his eyes on them, Steve had to blink. Colour was back in Bucky’s face, his lips were set in a thin line, and he looked just the same as the first day he had been introduced to Phillips and Steve. _The Winter Soldier_ , Karvop had called him with an undeniable hint of affection. Back then, Bucky had been nameless and silent, calculating and stoic as he’d looked over Steve and his men. 

“Don’t tell the others,” Bucky said. His voice was calm and flat, emotionless and controlled. He took charge where Steve couldn’t. “Let them sleep; let them rest. We should move out in the morning before anyone finds it.” His eyes flicked from Steve’s to Peter’s and then back to lock with Steve’s. Steve shivered despite himself. 

“Peter,” Bucky caught the other man’s attention, finally dragging Peter’s eyes away from the closed door. “You came out here willingly. Now you will have to deal. Keep watch at the door; no one leaves base unless it is for watch duty and then remind them that they are to keep to the perimeter of the town. Can you do that?” Steve watched as Peter nodded silently, taking in the way that Bucky nodded with him, as if coaching him on the affirmative action. “Good. I’ll deal with the rest.”

Peter shot Steve a look full of horror and sorrow, but he didn’t ask for counter orders. Instead, he turned heel and fled, his feet eating up the earth with the stride of a man possessed. He disappeared around the bend, which was when Bucky turned his stony words to Steve. 

“You should go back. People will suspect something,” Bucky added as he walked past Steve without even a glance. “Keep them calm. And look after Wanda.” He added the last part in as an afterthought as he made his way down the steps. 

Steve lingered, watching the way Bucky descended the stairs. The further he went, the more he became himself. His shoulders lifted, his head rose high, and his body moved with stealth. 

Steve hated it.

So he acted. Taking the steps two at a time, he grabbed Bucky by the wrist, his grip hard, and pulled him off his course. Steve said a single word, “No,” though he wasn’t too sure where it was directed. He didn’t know what he was more shocked at; his actions or the fact that Bucky didn’t resist. 

The Spetsnaz followed without protest, his arm hanging limply between his body and Steve’s strong grip as Steve pulled him through the streets without a word. He didn’t think to be on guard, didn’t fear any attacks from the dark. Let them come. Nothing would stop them, and Steve was done with fearing the sound of marching in the night. 

He took them as far away from the church as possible. Found a building on the outskirts of the town and pulled them into the darkness. Bucky was like a ghost at his side as Steve kicked the door closed behind them. 

It was Steve who closed the gap – it always was – and there wasn’t a single part of him that minded. He pulled Bucky in close, pressing the other man’s head against his shoulder and clasping his arms around the other’s back. 

Bucky shook and, in that moment, Steve was sure the world was ending. 

They stood like that, almost tempting time to end, with the only movement between them in the form of Bucky’s shaking shoulders and the way Steve stroked his back, his hair and neck. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky finally said as his shakes subsided. It was Steve’s turn to shake, his head moving from side to side. He tightened his grip as Bucky tried to pull away. “I should-”

“You’ve done enough.” It was a command, not a caring whisper and Steve was ready to fight for it if he had to. Bucky didn’t try to move, all he did was curl his fingers in the back of Steve’s jacket and hold on tighter. When Steve finally stood back, Bucky didn’t let go and didn’t resist as Steve tilted his head upwards. 

Bucky tasted like winter; cold snow and earth and ice with the lingering remains of cigarette smoke. 

Steve groaned and buried his hands into Bucky’s hair, pulling him closer as his tongue pushed to be allowed past Bucky’s lips. The other man opened up for him, and Steve walked forwards, driving Bucky’s steps until his back hit the wall. Holding him there, Steve’s tongue claimed Bucky’s mouth, desperate for more of that unique taste; for more of Bucky.

It was a stupid idea, a fairy tale contrived in the head of someone too far gone with emotion to know what was rational and what wasn’t, but right then and there, Steve was sure that Bucky only allowed himself to feel when their lips were locked together. 

*****

**Part IV Preview**

Steve watched as Bucky’s finger tightened on the trigger, yet the Spetsnaz didn’t fire. His body was splayed out across the snow, the barrel of his rifle draped in white cloth to hide the metal from the gleam of the sun. His fur pelt was up over his head, hiding the darkness of his hair. A white mink in the snow, a lump of a tree or a rock; if Steve hadn’t watched Bucky crawl into position even, he wouldn’t have known Bucky was there. 

Down below the German soldiers talked between themselves. One reclined against the side of the jeep, cigarette in hand and eyes trailing over the horizon. Another turned the ignition, the rumble of the engine not quite coming to life. The others patrolled, one eating from a plastic wrapper while their technician poked his head out from under the hood of the broken-down vehicle. 


	4. Part IV - Make your first move and decide to be conscious; God of each moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Have had some computer dramas, and then once that was fixed, life smacked me again by having my internet crash for a couple of days. :insert grumpy Minka face:

**Part IV**

_Make your first move and decide to be conscious; God of each moment._

*****

Steve watched as Bucky’s finger tightened on the trigger, yet the Spetsnaz didn’t fire. His body was splayed out across the snow, the barrel of his rifle draped in white. It hid the metal from the gleam of the sun. His fur pelt was up over his head, hiding the darkness of his hair. A white mink in the snow, a lump of a tree or a rock; if Steve hadn’t watched Bucky crawl into position even he wouldn’t have known Bucky was there. 

Down below the German soldiers talked between themselves. One reclined against the side of the jeep, cigarette in hand and eyes trailing over the horizon. Another turned the ignition, the rumble of the engine not quite coming to life. The others patrolled, one eating from a plastic wrapper while their technician poked his head out from under the hood of the broken-down vehicle. 

Bucky had found them with ample warning. He’d been out the front, as usual, scouting the terrain and when he had returned, quiet and silent as a ghost, he had reported the small squad. 

Steve and his men had followed Bucky through the woods, twisting and turning and splashing across a half-frozen stream. It made Steve wonder how it was that Bucky could travel so far so quickly. It took them twenty minutes to mount a rise and look down on the enemy. 

Rumlow had wanted to lead a charge straight down the hill and take the men out. There was only five of them, after all. Steve may have lost a lot of his men, but they still outnumbered those below two to one. They were good odds, yet as he was about to give his Second the nod of approval, Steve had seen Bucky. There was something in his eyes, something so strange and alien that it had pulled Steve to a halt. Bucky never let anything show, never gave himself away with uncloaked emotion. 

“We outnumber them,” Rumlow had stated. “It is an easy raid.”

Bucky had remained silent, his head merely shaking from side to side. When he didn’t offer voiced rejection to Rumlow’s idea, Rumlow had huffed and looked back to Steve, his eyes accusing. Steve could read those emotions far too easily. _Who’s in charge here?_ they asked. 

The two men had been at each other’s throats since the incident in the last town. Steve didn’t miss the glares Rumlow sent Bucky’s way while he tendered to his hand, cleaning the wound and binding it against infection. Nor did he miss the way Bucky would lift his chin, the way his lips would press into a defiant line whenever said glares cut across their camp. 

Bucky kept Wanda close, talking to her in Russian and schooling her in both English and weapons. More often than not it was Wanda who cleaned Bucky’s gun, small, deft fingers working dirt and grime out of the barrel and chambers. The girl even tried to go out and patrol with Bucky; something that both he and Steve put a stop to very quickly. When Bucky was gone, it was either Steve or Dum Dum that took care of the girl and kept her in line. She had taken an odd shining to the burly soldier. 

“Bucky,” Steve had said slowly and honest to god, he had no clue what he was going to say until the words just fumbled out of his mouth. “What are you thinking?”

Bucky had sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck tiredly. “We want the jeep,” he had started out slowly as if his sleep-deprived mind was only just starting to clue the ideas together as he went. 

“We can still take it if we-”

Steve saw it. Saw that very moment when Bucky snapped out of his outsider silence and let his training take over. 

“Open your eyes, Lieutenant,” Bucky had snapped, not at all politely. “You think that one jeep made all those tracks in the mud? Look at how they are standing around; they’re calm, they’re casual. They don’t fear any attacks even though they’re on enemy soil. They’re part of a convoy.”

“I don’t hear anything,” Rumlow retorted. He said the words as if they were meant to mean something, as if he had superior hearing that could disprove Bucky’s theory. 

Bucky sighed again, and as he moved, Steve watched, just as confused as his men. Bucky reached out and took up a handful of snow, then shifted position closer to the fallen tree that shielded them. For a strange moment, Steve was sure that Bucky was going to pack the snow and throw the ball at Rumlow’s head. Childish, but it was a reaction that easily resonated with Steve. 

Instead, Bucky cupped his hands and blew hotly across the snow. It melted with the warmth of his breath and Steve watched, fascinated, as Bucky let the liquid drip into a deep crevice in the bark of the tree. It pooled there, the water slightly cloudy from the mud mixed in with the snow yet as they all looked on, it was clear to see what Bucky was trying to demonstrate. 

The water shook and rippled as the ground around them shuddered, unnoticeable to the human eye and body. 

“There’s your proof.” Bucky had stated. “Out of earshot but the weight still marks their passing. About one, one and a half klicks away. They’ll hear the skirmish.” He looked off towards the west as if the way the water moved told him what way the vibrations came from. “Run down there… We’ll have time to take the five soldiers out, that is for sure, but shots will be fired. A flare if they’re smart. We’ll lose the jeep and have an unknown amount of Germans and vehicles out looking for us.” 

That had won them all over, Rumlow included if a little begrudgingly. 

Rumlow was still salty about it; Steve could see it in his eyes. It was a warped sense of jealousy that made no sense to Steve whatsoever. Perhaps Rumlow wanted to be the hero, the one with the knowledge and the brilliant plans. He wanted to be the one who could guess at the enemy strategies and work out ways to foil them all singlehandedly. He wanted to be the decorated war hero, known and acknowledged as the man that had saved so many lives and won so many battles. With Bucky there, it was an impossible goal to achieve and only further demonstrated his inability to think clearly in pressing situations. 

Steve didn’t understand it. He felt for Rumlow, he really did, and he could understand the frustration, but with that goal came hardship and pain. Steve saw it in Bucky every day, saw the reflections of his knowledge and the choices Bucky made dimming his eyes each time a new day dawned. Steve may have been their default leader with the loss of Phillips, but he didn’t envy Bucky’s position at all. Bucky was the one who called the situations and made the hard choices, he was the one who did what he had to while Steve stood in the background, calmed his men and would ultimately take the glory. 

If the Howling Commandos made it back alive, then Steve would be decorated, and Bucky would be pushed under the radar and sent back to the Red Army to do the same thing over and over again. 

It made trying to understand the likes of Rumlow even harder. Why anyone would want to be remembered for the lives they took was beside Steve. He wanted to be remembered for the lives he had saved, for those he had brought back over lines of unrelenting enemies and when that time came, Sergeant James Barnes’ name would be the first and last words off his lips. He’d make sure that the world understood what it was that Bucky had given up to save them and what he’d gone through to see a group of unworthy soldiers home safely. 

Now was the perfect example. Bucky had stopped them from doing something that was so potentially stupid that it was almost insulting. He had known about the convoy, seeing things that none of them even took into consideration. Without that, they would have met their fate out in the middle of nowhere; died at the hands of enemy soldiers and been left to rot in the cold, their story and struggle forgotten. 

Once Bucky had made his point, they let him set the pace. He had instructed them to stay just beyond the rise, out of sight and mind as he made his way closer. Steve had listened, he really had, and he relayed Bucky’s words as an order to his men. Yet he had crept forward, as had Falsworth and Morita and Peter. The rest they left where Bucky had said, the kids tucked away from the horrors that would follow and protected by the rest of Steve’s men. He and the three others had inched and crawled forward; just in case. Bucky wanted to shoulder the responsibility for the attack, keep them all out of harm’s way, but Steve would have none of that. If Bucky was going to risk his life to save them again, then the least Steve could do was provide an element of cover fire if things should go wrong. It would give them away, but Steve had promised that they’d only fire if the occasion called for it.

Bucky had taken his leave, slithering between trees and over rocks, his stomach flat to the earth as he crawled closer than any of them ever could. Always so quiet; always undetected. Steve almost entertained the idea that Bucky could have walked right up to them and started chatting in German before any of the enemies even realised the threat. 

Lost in the thin veil of white, Steve could see that Bucky was half shielded behind a twist of a tree root. Only his elbows kept his upper body upright, peering down the sight of the rifle that was threaded through a loop of roots. 

Bucky hated his gun. Steve had heard him bitch about it on more than just one occasion. It was standard issue for all Spetsnaz, but Bucky found its faults. His Mosin–Nagant sniper was great for long distance, the built-in suppressor far superior to anything Steve or his men had ever seen. It could fire a bullet on course for up to three hundred and fifty meters, the discharge nothing more than a ghost of a whisper even in dead silence. 

But that was all it was suitable for. One shot. After that, it was a bolt action reload that, as Bucky had once put it, made more noise than an elephant in a china shop. 

Steve had overheard Bucky and Karpov talking about the Mosin–Nagant once; it felt like a whole lifetime ago. Karpov had been telling Bucky to wait, not to be so hasty and to bide his time. The enemy would know when one of theirs fell, that was for sure, but they wouldn’t see the direction of the bullet. Not until the click of the bolt being wrenched back and the clunk of a second round entering the chamber drew their attention. 

Wait. Watch. Listen. That was what Karpov had advised, and Steve could remember Bucky nodding silently, the diligent student in training even in the heat of battle. 

That was why Bucky remained frozen; Steve knew it. He could almost picture the other man’s face, closed off and impassive yet with eyes squinted into the sight, and bottom lip pulled between his teeth. Bucky always did that when he was concentrating. It was either that or smoke and right now lighting up a durry wouldn’t help their cause at all. 

Beside him, Falsworth shifted slightly, and Steve couldn’t help but wonder if Bucky heard the noise and rolled his eyes. 

Noise crackled from a radio below, voices fast and frantic cutting into the chatter of the five soldiers. Steve strained his ears to hear, but even then, the German words made little sense. Glancing back towards Bucky, Steve could see the other’s head tilt slightly to the side, the fur covering his head blowing in the breeze as he listened. Not for the first time, Steve wondered why all soldiers hadn’t undergone more language training before being deployed. 

That was when the first man fell. The one at the back of the jeep. One minute he was standing there, gun at the ready and eyes watching the wild around them and the next he was slumped on the ground. 

Steve heard the tick of the next bullet entering Bucky’s rifle; it coincided with the sound of the body dropping to the ground. 

The next man to fall was the one near the radio, the shot coming so quickly that the other men hadn’t even processed the fact that their comrade had fallen. A third took a shot to the head, and that one got their attention. He keeled over, his head snapping forward in a way that suggested Bucky had gotten him right in the back of the throat. The click of the next bullet didn’t come until one of the Germans shouted. They looked around, hefted their guns as the smoking man fell, the cigarette slipping from his dying grasp. 

Three down, two to go, and they were only just starting to clue on. 

The remaining two moved, both looking right and left and trying to determine where the sniper was hidden. Guns were raised, and shouts filled the air. 

Steve watched Bucky. He didn’t even flinch. The only thing that moved was his finger. 

Bucky took one of the remaining two out before he even rounded the front of the jeep.

Click. 

This time the sound of the gun reloading was loud to the point of deafening. The last soldier even heard it, his eyes flicking to the exact location of the sniper and Steve felt his heart stop as the German lifted his gun. 

It fell from his hands as his body collapsed, the shoulder strap flapping in the wake of the metal. 

Silence followed. Bucky remained poised, no doubt still peering down the sight of his rifle to make sure that no one was left alive. Steve was too stunned to move, and the rest his men seemed to suffer from the same immobility. 

“He’s a fuckin’ machine,” Peter whispered to what was probably Morita. Steve ignored it and let the comment pass, too lost between stunned and impressed to be bothered issuing commands of silence. 

That was five. In his mind, Steve couldn’t help but tally up the loss. Somewhere along the line, he had lost count of the dead. It was war, causalities were expected every day. And yet something about that set heavily in his stomach. How many men had he killed? He could count them on his hands, give or take a few that had been in the way of a grenade. But Bucky was a different story, and Steve wondered if the other man kept his own tally and what number he had reached. 

Maybe Steve was idealistic or stupid, or perhaps he was putting far too much humanity into the last member of their Spetsnaz escort, but he was sure that Bucky remembered every single one. 

Some men were born for this, for war and killing and camaraderie be damned. Rumlow’s name sprung to mind when Steve thought about it. Rumlow belonged to the kind that saw the enemy as nothing more than ducks at a carnival shooting gallery, to be shot down and eliminated at will. Better the enemy’s life than their own. They all shared the want to survive, and Steve could fault no man for that, but with Bucky, it went further. He was trained and built to keep others alive, no matter the cost. It was part of who he was, and yet, there was that part of Steve that understood Bucky like no one else could. He knew the other man; saw the way he would shake at night or twitch in the few hours of sleep that he allowed himself. 

He was doing his duty, doing what he was programmed to, and yet it was clear to see – if one just bothered to look beneath that hard surface – that he hated every minute of it. 

Some men were born killers, but Bucky was fashioned into one, and as the Russian sniper finally stood, proclaiming the coast clear, Steve couldn’t help but wonder what path in life Bucky would have chosen for himself had things been different. 

They all knew the plan; it was the same as always. Bucky would lead as the scout and Steve would lead as the commander. Falsworth, Peter, Morita and Rumlow – who had slid up to them amidst the shooting – would follow Steve while Dum Dum and the rest would stay with the kids. 

They descended the rise in utter silence, their boots the only noise to mark their passing. Bucky was as quiet as ever, a ghost floating between them. 

They approached the jeep cautiously, guns at the ready and eyes peering from left to right. Only Bucky walked at ease, his rifle over his shoulder and his knives still sheathed. He had confidence in his abilities, sure that his shots had been straight and true. 

The truth of the matter couldn’t have been surer. Steve walked around the jeep, taking in the sight of the executed soldiers with morbid curiosity. Each and every one had been taken through the throat, right between the collarbones or in the head. The bullets had opened them up, splitting spinal cords, windpipes and brains alike. Clean kills; fast and effective and none of that choking on your own blood and screaming bullshit that came with wayward bullets. 

“Peter,” Steve whispered. The trooper hurried to his side with a nod. “Go and bring the others. Morita, Falsworth. Set up a perimeter. We need to get the location secured. I want to know well ahead of time if that convoy bears down on us.” Bucky had assured them that his sniper would be silent enough that it wouldn’t be heard, and while Steve trusted him undoubtedly, it was still best to be prepared. 

The two men put their heads down as their feet ate up the ground, following the orders. 

Steve turned his eyes back to the scene before him. Rumlow was pulling the corpse from the driver’s seat roughly. Once on the ground, he was rummaging through the dead man’s possessions, pocketing ammo and equipment with indifference set in his expression. 

Bucky went straight to the soldier who had been smoking, rummaging through the compartments of his uniform. He disregarded everything; ammo, an old pocket watch and a small bundle of food coupons and stopped searching the moment he found the man’s cigarettes. He shoved the pack into his own pocket but not before pulling one free and lighting it up. Steve wondered if it was a habit and something that Bucky did every time he took a life; left them with everything they owned bar their smokes and then lit one up. 

Maybe it was like burning a candle for the dead. 

Bucky had his eyes on the ground again, his head bowed, and his shoulders slumped. 

Steve moved up beside the other man, his hand splaying across Bucky’s shoulder. The other man jumped slightly at the touch but reminded silent as his lighter flared into life. Steve watched as he breathed in deeply, fascinated by the emotions that played just below the surface of his face. 

“Do you have anyone good with mechanics?” Bucky finally asked, trails of smoke whiffing from between his lips. He looked out towards the road, never once looking over at Steve. It bothered him, seeing Bucky like this. By now, he was getting used to it though; each time they faced the enemy, Bucky would shut down afterwards. He wouldn’t make eye contact, he would talk only business and orders, and then he wouldn’t sleep. That was how Steve knew that Bucky felt and remembered his kills. 

What Steve hated the most was the fact that it would take days for him to get close to Bucky again, to pull him out of his reserved silence and get him acting like anything other than a wounded killing machine. By the time he achieved that, they had a day or two of carefree, smiling Bucky and then he’d be back out there, doing all the dirty work and retreating back into himself all over again. 

It was a vicious cycle and one that Steve was determined to find a way to break. 

Steve shook his head as he ticked each of his surviving men off his list. Rumlow was ok, but no specialist, Rollins knew nothing, and Peter and Morita were more rifle orientated than vehicle. Dernier and Falsworth were better at blowing things up than getting them to work. Even his own knowledge fell short. “Nope,” he finally said, knowing that Bucky wasn’t looking up at him to see his silent answer. He pulled on Bucky’s shoulder slightly, forcing him to turn away from the road and bringing them face to face. 

Bucky nodded in response, the cigarette pinched between his fingers and his eyes not quite reaching Steve’s. “Guess that’s me then,” he said his tone remarkably upbeat, all things considered. 

Something about that pained Steve, drawing him back to his previous thoughts. Bucky wasn’t the type to laugh off death, and that was all that remained here. 

He wished he had sent Rumlow off to get the others just to give them a moment’s respite. Bucky was a lot of things, but above all, he was stubborn, and with Rumlow present then he wasn’t going to open up and be the human that Steve knew him to be. 

Still, that didn’t stop Steve from whispering the words he was so desperate to voice. “Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes searching the other man’s face for any hint of his thoughts. Bucky remained as unreadable as always. 

“Fine,” he said. But the word was too curt, too fast and simple. Steve hated it. He tightened his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, pulling him closer while massaging at the knotted muscles he could so readily feel. The other man was tense; tightened from hunching over his sniper and the destruction the simple flexing of his finger had caused. Yet still, it didn’t stop Bucky from leaning down, his cheek all but nuzzling into Steve’s hand on his shoulder and while tender, Steve felt his heart break at that. 

“Later,” Steve said almost silently. His thumb moved up to catch Bucky’s chin, pulling his face up to force eye contact. Steve took the time they had, savouring it as he let his hand splay out across Bucky’s cheek, cupping his face and tangling in his hair, even if it could only last for a moment. 

Bucky nodded, that was all, and then he stepped back, forcing Steve’s fingers to fall away as he jammed the cigarette between Bucky’s lips, disappearing in the place Steve wanted so desperately to feel. 

“I’ll need a-”

“I’ll set the perimeter,” Steve interjected. “Guard you.”

Bucky smiled slightly, as if he found the words ironic and then flicked his eyes over to the broken-down jeep. “I don’t know if I can fix it,” he admitted. He said the words as if they were a weakness – something to be ashamed of – yet Steve heard them as something else. It was the first time he had ever really heard doubt in Bucky’s voice. 

“I have faith,” Steve smiled around the words. The sound of the rest of his troop cut him off and no sooner had he heard them, Wanda was there, hugging at Bucky’s side as if he had been gone for months. Bucky managed a half smile for the girl, his hand tussling her hair and Steve didn’t miss the way Bucky turned her face towards his shoulder, burying her nose there. Steve understood even before Bucky sent him an imploring look over the top of Wanda’s head. 

The bodies. She didn’t need to see them. 

Steve waved at the closest of his men, silently indicating to dispose of them with a sweeping motion of his hand. They did as they were told, keeping silent while Bucky chattered away to Wanda in Russian and kept her held close, her eyes shielded. Steve would have given anything to know what Bucky was saying; what words he came up with to sooth and even entertain her when Steve himself couldn’t seem to do the same for Bucky. 

Bloodstains remained – there was no way they could get rid of those – and Steve tried not to look at them. The bodies were left off the road, dumped into the snowy ditches once they had been looted and stripped of weapons. It was a part of war that Steve could never quite get used to. Stealing from the dead and never burying those left behind. It seemed heedlessly cold and unrelenting, even if it was the enemy.

With the bodies gone and Bucky’s mind set to the task at hand, Steve’s teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he watched his men. Steve found himself walking with no direction, weaving his way between them and just listening, watching as they hurried about the small clearing. 

The others were patrolling and fortifying their position; Rumlow was calling the shots, organising the watch and setting the walk time of the scouts. Rumlow wasn’t without his faults, that was for goddamn sure, but at least he was trying. 

Besides, Steve had the feeling that Rumlow was out to prove something to the men. Since his violent encounter with Bucky, and the Spetsnaz’s ability to rebut his ideas every step of the way, Rumlow had to get their respect back. Everyone in the company had heard how Rumlow’s hand had been injured; it was a hard thing to redeem. 

Steve did what he could, hushing the words when he heard them with glares, orders and threats. It kept the rumours to a minimum, but he had the feeling that they just learnt not to speak openly about the Spetsnaz in front of him. 

Peter was oddly the worst, a fact that Steve found somehow astounding and yet understandable all at the same time. Peter was the youngest of the lot – too young to be at war – and while he was a fantastic marksman, he was a bit of a lost sheep as well. He had strange hero worship for Bucky; even Steve could see that, and it often made the Captain nervous. Unlike most of the other’s, Peter’s whispered rumours weren’t aimed to be hurtful. They were filled with admiration and respect, hushed due to awe and wonder and the excitement of being near someone so _amazing_.

It was worrying. 

Boots squelching through the tire tracks, Steve walked in the direction the convoy had come. 

There was nothing really left for Steve to do. He could have, maybe even should have, pulled out his radio and tried to contact Command again but the idea of the silence he was almost guaranteed to find seemed far too crushing. Call him weak, but he wasn’t so sure he could deal with that right now. Besides, it would only dampen the mood of his men, and right now they were flying, soaring above all the hardships with Bucky’s victory still in their minds, the idea of rations and ammo and a vehicle to alleviate the pain in their feet almost euphoric. Steve couldn’t fault them for that, just as he couldn’t bring himself to be the one to take such small mercies away. 

He could have taken stock of what was in the back of the jeep – it was pretty clear that that was something he should have done as a leader – but two things stopped him. The fact that Bucky would no doubt do it better and faster and that right now, Steve couldn’t stand to be near the other man. 

That was what really unsettled Steve; what forced his feet further into the woods, long after the line of patrol had been reached. 

Bucky had done nothing to earn his scorn and Steve wasn’t even so sure that it was contempt that had him needing to be away. It was worry and concern and what it meant for Steve to feel those alien feelings that had his feet taking him further and further away. 

This was war, dark and bloody and violent. It was only natural for any of them to express concern for their fellow soldiers, but with Bucky and for Steve, it was different. 

Steve felt for each of his men; he shared their hardships, their pains. The way cold chilled them to the bone, the way their stomachs rumbled hungrily and the way their hands festered with blisters from digging holes in the ground to sleep in and rest. He saw his fair share of horrors when he closed his eyes and even he woke in the middle of the night, eyes huge and hand reaching for his weapon as his dreams slowly melted into memories. 

But when it came to Bucky, things were different. The other man was starting to look sickly, all pale skin with dark eyes and hair, flushed cheeks and sheens of sweat despite the cold. Steve knew he wasn’t eating and sleeping, and he saw firsthand the way Bucky would startle awake moments after his eyes closed for precious rest. 

It stretched beyond worry and concern for the men under his command, and into something else that Steve wasn’t too sure he could deal with. He saw Rumlow tired and run down; Dum Dum’s breath would come in gasps and pants when they set a quick pace. Steve felt for them – he really did – but Steve had no desire to grab them and shake and yell until they actually took a moment to rest. He didn’t spend hours awake at night wondering where they were or if they were warm enough in their foxholes. He didn’t have any desire to pull his jacket off and wrap it around _their_ shaking shoulders. 

Steve didn’t pray for another destroyed town so that he could pull _them_ away in secret and wrap his arms around them, telling them everything would be fine while sharing his warmth. 

Bucky pulled all those things from Steve and then some and Steve didn’t know how to deal with it. 

The worst thing about this whole fucking mess was that each step he took to put space between them only made him want to turn and run back. He didn’t like the idea of being so far away from the Spetsnaz. Rationality could say that Steve just wanted to keep him safe, like he did all his men, but he knew it went well above and beyond that. It could also be argued that, considering Bucky’s experience and skills, Steve didn’t feel comfortable and secure away from him, so maybe he wanted to be close so that he knew _he_ was protected. 

That was also bullshit, and Steve knew it. 

The truth of the matter was that Steve couldn’t watch Bucky run himself into the ground just as he couldn’t deal with him out of his sight. 

It was that sinking feeling of being too far away that had Steve turning mid-step, lowering his head and marching back through his own footsteps. 

When he finally made it back, he found Wanda sitting in the driver’s seat of the jeep. Her hands were poised on the wheel in the correct ten-two positions, her eyes locked straight ahead. She had a wicked grin on her face as she sat there. Bucky was nowhere to be seen, and Steve tried to ignore the way his stomach seemed to jump into his throat. 

“Where’s Bucky?” Steve asked the girl, hoping that she would get the meaning of the question just by the way Steve’s eyebrows quirked. She snapped her eyes off her imaginary road at his voice, her right eye squinting as if weighing him up before letting out a string of Russian that had Steve blinking. 

Holding his hands out in a shrug, Steve shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he repeated in English. She seemed to grasp his meaning, the scoff and shake of the head that she gave in response sounding and looking exactly like something Bucky would do. 

As if in response, there was a tap from under the vehicle followed by two more in quick succession. 

“Broom broom,” she said at the tapping, Steve all but forgotten. She slipped low in the seat so she could hit the pedals while her hand turned the key. Clearly, she wasn’t tall enough for the huge military truck. 

The engine spluttered into life, the vehicle rumbling like a starving beast. Wanda whooped out loud, her fist pumping the air and then she was moving, opening the driver’s door and laying flat across the seat, her hair falling around her face as she peered into the darkness under the jeep. A string of excited Russian followed, almost loud enough to drown out the sound of the engine and Steve had a distinct feeling that she was outwardly ignoring him. 

Bucky’s voice followed, all gruff and muffled and unmistakable and Steve’s head turned to the side as he tried to pick out any of the words. Nothing. 

Standing to the side, he crossed his arms over his chest and lent his hip and shoulder against the passenger side of the jeep. Maybe it was time he sat Bucky down and talked the other man into giving him language lessons. 

It felt like ages before Steve saw the Spetsnaz hauling himself to his feet, his bare hands gripping the door to help himself up. He and Wanda high fived each other as Bucky shook snow and mud out of his hair. He had grease and oil across his face, high up on his cheekbones and smudged under his chin. It looked like war paint. A thick line of shiny black cut through his right eyebrow and from the way it made his eyelashes flutter, Steve could tell some of it had gotten in his eye. Bucky looked over at him with a proud smirk, his eye blinking against the grease but it was Wanda who stole his attention. 

Wanda kept talking as she swung down from the high-set vehicle with grace and silence that mirrored Bucky’s. In a strange way, it gave Steve the chills. It was like they were separated at birth or something; hewn from the same hardships and trained under the same judging eye. They were both so similar; both pale with their white skin and contrasting hair and eyes. Like Bucky, Wanda had memories in her eyes, deep and hidden and chased away by a smile, but there nonetheless. 

She reached up, trailing her finger across Bucky’s cheek in a way that, irrational as it was, had Steve seeing green jealousy. With her hands covered in muck, she moved them across her own cheeks, painting lines of black that looked strange paired with her smile. Bucky laughed and reached down to smudge the lines further, blending them like deathly blush across her cheeks. 

“Best little mechanic around,” Bucky said to Steve while ruffling the girl’s hair. “Learnt a lot from her father, apparently.” She grinned brightly around the lines of oil, obviously knowing that they were talking about her and completely wrapped up in Bucky’s attention. Again Steve felt that prang of jealousy stir inside him. 

He ignored it and turned his attention to the back of the jeep, desperate for something to say. “I’ll arrange one of the men to take stock of supplies.”

Bucky shook his head, just as Steve had known he would, and Steve had the feeling that he wasn’t the only one trying to hold back the ghost of a smile. 

“Already done,” Bucky said the words Steve was expecting. “I had time to kill while she was crawling around the engine and working out what was wrong. Left the hard, dirty stuff up to me though,” he grinned while reaching over and turning the keys in the ignition, switching off the loud rumble of the engine. 

Steve thought that was for the best, if not just because the sound seemed so alien after so long moving silently through the woods, but also to preserve fuel. 

“’Course it will only get us as far as the fuel will last,” Bucky said as if he were replying to words Steve hadn’t voiced. “There’s no reserve in the back, but there is plenty of ammo and rations for at least two weeks.” Steve must have let his hope show on his face for Bucky laughed, soft and light and yet still mirthlessly. “Don’t get too excited. Tinned meat and questionable German protein bars mainly, but sure beats the hell out of _cigarette soup_.” 

Steve felt his stomach lurch just at the mention of their staple diet. Weak, watery onion soup, named thus for the fact that it had the colour, consistency and, Steve was willing to bet, the damn taste of an ashtray filled with water. Appealing shit right there; it somehow made canned spam seem like a gourmet treat. 

“How much in the tank?” Steve asked, walking around the jeep to come up next to Bucky. He resisted the urge to shove Wanda out of the way and be the only one allowed to stand so painfully close. 

Bucky rubbed at the back of his neck and raised his eyebrows. “Just over three quarters.”

“Not bad,” Steve nodded even as his eyes narrowed. He knew Bucky well enough by now; he could see those little ticks. Bucky rubbed at his skin and then bushed his dirty thumb along the underside of his lip, leaving a dark streak of grime across the right side of his face. He was worried. 

“What is it?”

Bucky looked at him in shock, as if he wasn’t expecting Steve to pick up on his little insecurities. His eyebrows knotted towards the middle of his face. Steve noted the way that small action pulled all Bucky’s features tight; his lips pouted forward, lines shot out from the sides of his eyes and his nose crinkled. 

“Nothing,” Bucky muttered, more to himself than to Steve. 

Steve shook his head and stepped in closer, almost ordering; “Talk.”

For once, Bucky did as he was told. 

“I just don’t like it,” Bucky finally confessed. Steve’s eyebrow shot up in question, and he took a step closer; not threatening but encouraging, closing the space between them in a silent promise that whatever Bucky wanted to say would stay between them. Bucky rubbed at the back of his neck again before he continued. “The rest will notice when these guys don’t catch up.”

“And they’ll come looking,” Steve nodded as he added. 

Bucky agreed. “Either they will find the bodies and know we are around, or they’ll find nothing which will have them asking more questions.” 

Steve nodded, understanding the Spetsnaz’s fears. The same thoughts were in his mind, though only as an inkling. 

“The supplies are good,” Bucky went on to explain, “and I can’t begrudge the men the want to get off their feet, but this is an enemy jeep in hostile territory. It just… we’re obviously not German, and you’re not Soviet. If we come across either side, we are fucked. It’s loud, we’ll have to stick to the roads or cut across fields which will leave obvious trails and risk snowdrifts and concealed ice. You can hear an engine for miles at night.”

Bucky was shaking his head back and forth as he spoke, once reaching up to rub at the skin under his right eye. He left another oil streak there before rubbing a round stain into his temple as he pressed in on what Steve guessed was the start of a headache. 

Bucky was right, Steve knew it. The rest of his men were coming back, rounded up by the sound of the truck rumbling. Steve licked his lips and placed his hand over Bucky’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly before walking past him and into the middle of his men. 

“Ok, listen up,” Steve called for attention. They paused, heads turning towards him and Rumlow shuffled closer, his wounded hand cradled against his chest. Bucky took a step back, and Wanda followed him. 

“We’ve almost got a full tank of fuel, nothing else and we have two hours of daylight left. We drive as far as we can, camouflage the jeep and dig camp in away from it. We only drive during the day to avoid noise.”

No one asked any questions, so Steve helped load Pietro into the back, packing him in among the boxes of supplies. Dum Dum took the wheel, Rumlow the passenger seat and Rollins climbed in between them, cracking a crass joke about driving stick. Falsworth and Peter sandwiched in around Pietro, Morita pulled up an empty spot next to Wanda, and the rest dangled their legs out the overhang at the back. 

Nodding to himself, Steve turned to usher Bucky into the last spot, but the other man was already gone, striking a good few yards ahead, silent and fast and ever at the ready. The engine roared into life, and Steve merely sighed, his head shaking as he swung himself up and picked his way through the tangle of legs and crates. Now wasn’t the time to pick a fight with Bucky. 

He sat himself down at the front of the trailer, his arms crossed over the front seat so he could watch the road and the lone figure still acting as their guide. 

*****

**Part V Preview:**

Steve beat him to it. His hands grabbed hold of Bucky’s shoulders roughly, and Bucky felt himself getting shoved backwards. As if he had anywhere else to go. His shoulders dug into the soil, small rocks and severed tree roots cascading down at the force, and Bucky’s head thudded back at the second push. Steve had him well and truly pinned, his body replacing his hands. He put those to good use, both moving up to sink into Bucky’s hair, the right cupping his jaw around his ear. Then those lips were finally there, pressing against Bucky’s in just the right way to have the last shards of Bucky’s resolve crumbling away. 

Steve’s kisses were like fire; they always had been. Dominating; all teeth mixed with want and need, somehow blending an undefinable element of danger and violence with revered tenderness. Bucky loved it. 


	5. Part V - Come touch me like I’m an ordinary man, without blood on his hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fucking love this chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Part V**

_Come touch me like I’m an ordinary man, without blood on his hands_

*****

“It’s getting cold,” Bucky mused as a twig broke underfoot. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Only one person would have come this far out of camp. Well, maybe two, but Wanda’s footsteps were lighter, and she never would have braved a light to illuminate her passage. 

“Winter is coming.” Steve said the words with the wisdom of ages weighing them down. Like some long-lost proverb that spoke of hardships and pain, of death and destruction. 

Bucky shuddered at just how true that was, helpfully not pointing out that it always felt like Winter in the Soviet Union. 

The air to his left shifted, and Steve was there, crouched down beside him. Bucky kept looking into the distance, but he knew Steve wasn’t. Steve was looking at him, his eyes doing that glassy searching thing that Bucky had seen so many times. 

For a dark moment, Bucky wondered what it was that Steve saw. The killer; the cold-hearted soldier. Or maybe he saw beyond that, saw the startled, scared kid that still resided in Bucky, the one Bucky both hated and loved. 

Honestly, Bucky didn’t know what was worse. The kid would let Steve down; the kid needed protection, and kind words and assurance that he was doing the right thing in a world turned to hate and violence. The kid was weakness embodied and was the exact sort of thing that Steve didn’t need among his men. But the killer was no better. That side was dark and rough, all sharp angles and murderous looks. Trigger fingers and hands calloused from the grip of knives. It spoke of evil and danger while the kid was innocence and susceptibility. 

Bucky wished that there was a third option, something else tucked away in the folds of his own mind that he could give the other man. A part of him that was competent and yet compassionate, brave and yet untainted. He wished it was there for Steve, for those that followed the Captain and Bucky wished it was there for himself. A balanced party that wasn’t trying to destroy him from the inside out. 

“What are you doing out here?” Bucky finally asked, rather desperate to break the silence and get the feeling of those damn questioning eyes away from his skin. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” It was oddly irritable for Steve. Bucky was the snappy one, the snide one and the harsh one. Steve was all careful words and rehearsed orders, never snarky and something about hearing that tone had Bucky’s mind racing right back to those self-deprecating thoughts. Steve didn’t like what he saw, and Bucky couldn’t blame him one little bit. 

“I’m on watch duty,” Bucky half lied. 

They had set up camp three hours ago, parking the jeep and hauling as much of the supplies as they could carry; just in case. Bucky had been the one to gather branches and stack them up, coating the jeep in foliage and canvas thrown with dirt and snow. It wasn’t invisible, but on a dark night, it could blend well enough. Bucky had covered the tire tracks, raking leaves and mud into the deep-set lines carved into the earth while the others walked. They didn’t go far, but far enough that they would have a fighting chance if someone happened upon the stolen vehicle. Steve had given the order to dig in, and as one, the rest of the Howling Commandos had taken shovel to dirt and started ploughing. 

After that, Steve and Rumlow had handed out rations from the new supply and made sure all the foxholes were well fortified. Rumlow had given the call on the watch, allocating times and shifts and Bucky wasn’t too sure if it was good or bad that Rumlow hadn’t mentioned his name at all. 

The company ate, half slinking off to a four-point watch post and Bucky blended with the trees. He went past their line, weaving his way through the bush until he found a large crop of rocks that overlooked the road they had travelled. He squeezed his way down between them, hidden from view and yet still able to see the dirt path below. The rocks were cold in the night air, the light dusting of snow sitting on their crests and turning the section between into sludge. He ignored it all, tucked his arms around himself and shrunk further into his fur pelt. 

He’d been there ever since, alone and motionless, undisturbed and silent. The hours past and maybe Steve had thought he was quiet, but Bucky heard him coming long before Steve would have spotted his head sticking over the lowest of the stones. 

“Do you have a foxhole?” Steve asked slowly, and Bucky got the feeling that it was pretty much a rhetorical question. They both knew the answer to that. Bucky hated foxholes. They were so typically military that he and his kind shrugged them off; too much effort and a lot of spent energy for nothing. Not to mention that they left clear traces of their passing. It stood against everything the 181st were about; they moved through the night undetected, left no signs of their presence. Nothing screamed ‘troop of enemies’ like bloody great holes in the ground. 

Bucky merely shook his head, not justifying the question with a vocal answer. Steve didn’t seem to like that, or maybe it was the fact that he had heard exactly what he had wanted to hear. A gloved hand closed around Bucky’s arm even as Steve pushed himself back up to his feet. 

“Come on,” Steve urged. His hand was large and tight, and he pulled with an urgency that said he wouldn’t be ignored. 

Bucky did his best to brush the other man off, just as he always did. 

“I’m on guard duty,” he replied courtly. He tried to shrug Steve’s arm off as he turned his eyes back to the dark forest, but Steve’s grip only got tighter. 

“Like fuck you are.” And damned if Bucky couldn’t hear the snappy tones of annoyance in Steve’s voice. As if to prove it, Steve took a step, aligning himself right in front of Bucky and in an instant, he was hauling Bucky to his feet, both hands hooked around Bucky’s arms. 

Bucky didn’t fight even as Steve yanked him roughly to his feet. Steve pulled and pushed, and Bucky sunk his heels into the soft earth between the boulders glaring heatedly at the other man. It was childish – even Bucky knew and understood that – but he didn’t care. That was when Steve snapped. 

“Don’t cause a scene, Bucky,” Steve hissed in his ear; a warning if Bucky had ever heard one. “Because I will match it.” It should have been an empty threat – there was no one here to witness any sort of scene – but it was clear that Steve wasn’t in the mood to be trifled with. “I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you back if I have to,” he added, not a single trace of a grin on his face. 

Bucky shuddered with the knowledge that Steve probably would – or would at least _try_ – burning in the pit of his stomach. Steve was all bulky muscle and towering height. It stood in stark contrast to his blonde hair and kind face, but Bucky knew that Steve could fight with the best of them. Bucky knew that he’d best Steve in a fight, but only because Bucky was a weapon trained to play dirty. Rules of a fair match weren’t exactly part of the 181st training regime. 

He let the taller man turn him around but not without a dramatic sigh. One of Steve’s hands remained closed around Bucky’s left arm while the other shoved in between his shoulder blades. 

It caught Bucky by surprise, his boots skidding on the rocks and Steve used that to get them moving. With that hand burning into his back, Bucky felt like he was being hauled toward a firing squad. 

They remained silent the whole way back to the camp, only pausing to call out their presence to Peter when they came upon the guard. Peter’s eyes locked with Bucky’s for a moment and fucked if Bucky didn’t pick up on the hint of an understanding nod and a slight smirk across his face. 

Steve’s foxhole was on the very edge of camp. He was not one of the leaders to surround himself in the safety of his own men. Always on the outskirts, always the first one to be targeted or to identify an attack. Bucky shouldn’t have expected anything else. 

Only once they had reached the hole did Steve let go of Bucky’s arm and then the cold tingled his skin when the warm hand disappeared. 

Steve held up the tarp, and Bucky eyed the dark hole with distaste. He felt like he was looking into the pits of his own grave. It terrified him to no ends. The idea of being in a deep, dank hole in the earth, surrounded by darkness and only Steve – _alone with Steve_ – had Bucky’s hands going sweaty inside his gloves. 

It wasn’t that he feared the other man, not in the slightest, or that he didn’t relish in their stolen moments and heated touches. It all came down to something else, twisting and rewinding to the idea that Bucky was two people locked inside a very fragile body. One that Steve seemed to be able to peer through like shop glass. 

Steve had a way of making him want to break, of pulling down his defences. It happened every time they were alone, and Bucky hated it. Steve would talk, all soothing and calm – _kind_ – and that scared little kid trapped inside of Bucky would respond. It would claw its way to the surface, scratching at the hardened soldier he was meant to be until Bucky couldn’t tell which side of him was worse. 

Steve’s hand on his back pulled him from his thoughts. He didn’t shove, not overly, but he sure as hell pushed. The force was enough to have Bucky’s shoes skidding in the mud and then, like it or not, he was slipping into the deep pit and shuffling over as Steve jumped down behind him. Bucky stayed still, waiting for his eyes to adjust in the darkness even as the tarp fell on his head, highlighting the fact that he was too tall to stand in the hole. Steve beat his eyes to it though, and within a minute, a small flame leapt into life from an oil lamp, illuminating the darkness. 

Bucky took it all in. The foxhole was far too big for one person, deep and reinforced with four tree branches in the corners. The back two were higher than the hole, keeping the tarp up on one end to allow room and, as Bucky’s tactical mind told him, for any overnight snow or rain to run free and not pull the middle down. It would have taken quite the feat to dig.

“Are you going to sit or…” Steve pressed. His hand closed around Bucky’s, pulling and tugging in directions opposite to before. Down, closer; not away and up. Bucky all but collapsed down beside him, his feet and legs in a tangle and his boots kicking up dirt as he tried to sort himself out. He really hated these holes. 

“When was the last time you slept?” Steve asked as he shifted around, stirring up little patches of earth that fell to the bottom of the pit like mini avalanches. 

Bucky screwed his face up at the question but didn’t try to think of a lie. It came easily. “Last night,” he said. He could tell by the look on Steve’s face that the Captain didn’t believe him. 

Sighing, Bucky tried to get himself to relax. The light was doing an excellent job at calming him, but the fact that he was in a deep hole in the frozen earth really wasn’t helping. He would rather be on the ground, under the stars and with a tree at his back. It wasn’t as well fortified, but it was what Bucky knew. 

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice Steve, didn’t see the look the other man was giving him nor the way he moved; not until it was far too late. 

Steve was crawling – fucking crawling – closer to him by the time his brain registered it, and by then, he was already pinned against the dirt wall. Bucky felt himself shiver even as the other’s body warmed him up, one of Steve’s knees pushing Bucky’s legs apart. 

“Steve…” Back pressed against the wall of the foxhole, Bucky didn't know what to do. There was no denying that part of this was turning him on, more than just a little, but that other part – the more rational side of him – screamed that this was not a good idea. They were in a foxhole in the middle of nowhere with the rest of Steve’s men either dug in somewhere around them or standing guard within the trees. 

Steve hummed in reply, the sound staying right in the back of his throat as he continued to mould Bucky into the position he wanted. Bucky felt Steve’s hands close around his knees, pulling at his legs until they stretched out straight along the length of the hole. He shifted uncomfortably and then squirmed again. Steve moved with him, his hands never leaving Bucky’s skin. 

“We shouldn’t…” Bucky started. Steve shook his head at the words, his index finger pressing over Bucky’s lips to coax him into silence. 

“Finally alone.” The words were brushed in whispers across the side of Bucky’s neck; Bucky’s skin prickled with sensation as a shiver ran down the length of his spine. Steve seemed to like that, his lips curving into a smile that Bucky could feel against the underside of his jaw. What Steve didn’t like was his collar, apparently, and Bucky had the presence of mind to be worried of ripped uniforms when Steve took hold of the material and yanked it to the side, exposing more of Bucky’s skin to the cold night air. 

It wasn’t cold for long. 

A warm tongue snaked it's way up over Bucky’s throat, rolling over his jawline and stopping just short of his lips. Bucky could feel and taste Steve’s words, yet those lips never found his and Bucky’s mind was shutting off in the way that made him want to push forward and take them. 

“Finally,” Steve repeated, “fuckin’ need you.” Steve nuzzled the last words, mouth working gently against the side of Bucky’s neck. A soft moan filled the foxhole and Bucky was sure it wasn’t from him; positive even as he realised his mouth was open and his lungs starved of air. Steve chuckled at the sound, his nose brushing across that wet line he had just made, his breath hot and cold all at the same time. 

Bucky’s mind officially shut down, the ideas of right and wrong and time and place and what was appropriate and not exploding like trees under mortar fire. The bits of his rationale fell and scattered and Bucky was left there, pressed back against the side of that damn foxhole grave with his legs apart, his mouth open and nothing but the desperate need to drag Steve closer. 

Steve beat him to it. His hands grabbed hold of Bucky’s shoulders roughly, and Bucky felt himself getting shoved backwards. As if he had anywhere else to go. His shoulders dug into the soil, small rocks and severed tree roots cascading down at the force, and Bucky’s head thudded back at the second push. Steve had him well and truly pinned, his body replacing his hands. He put those to good use, both moving up to sink into Bucky’s hair, the right cupping his jaw around his ear. Then those lips were finally there, pressing against Bucky’s in just the right way to have the last shards of Bucky’s resolve crumbling away. 

Steve’s kisses were like fire; they always had been. Dominating; all teeth mixed with want and need, somehow blending an undefinable element of danger and violence punctuated with revered tenderness. Bucky loved it. 

His right thumb dropped from near Bucky’s ear to press forcefully in at the joint of his jaw, forcing Bucky’s mouth open. When Steve’s tongue pushed its way inside, another moan filled the small space and this time Bucky knew – outright fucking knew – that it came from him. 

Someone wise once said that all good things came to an end. But here in the darkness of the earth, in a pit that Steve had dug in the middle of fuck-knows where Russia, Bucky knew that the apparent wise person was a moron. They had been so wrong. The only ‘good thing ending’ that happened, in Bucky’s opinion, was the way that Steve’s right hand dropped from his face, his thumb leaving his skin with the ghost of a bruise, and instead fell to the front of Bucky’s pants. 

One good thing ended, and another began. 

Warm fingers teased the opening of his pants, stroking him through the thick fatigues. Bucky couldn’t help himself. He bucked and moaned again, pressing himself against that hand while his arm yanked at the back of Steve’s head, dragging him back down into a kiss. Steve chuckled against his lips, never entirely staying still long enough for Bucky’s tongue to hook his own. Quick; teasing; filled with panted breath and then Steve’s bloody hand squeezed, and Bucky lost his mind completely. The whole damn German army could have walked up to them right then, and as far as Bucky was concerned, they would have to wait to kill him. 

The world was starting to get blurry. Bucky knew he finally moved, knew that he thrust both arms forward, hooking Steve’s shoulders and neck and he knew that he pulled the other man to him with such force that it again sent a landslide of earth tumbling from the wall. He knew for sure that he couldn’t go back any further and that Steve couldn’t come any closer, that he was crushed between the Captain and Russian soil and yet Bucky still tugged, yanking Steve forward until Bucky didn’t know where he ended and Steve began. 

When Steve touched his cock, Bucky heard the low whimper, felt it in his throat as it vibrated, then escaped. The sound was swallowed whole by Steve’s mouth, his tongue flicking over Bucky’s lips in a way that had him panting for more. With a flick of the wrist, Steve pushed Bucky’s zipper down the rest of the way and pushed the top of his pants further apart. The cold air against his warm skin was a shock; Steve’s fingers, warm and sure, seemed to suck that shock clean out of him. 

Bucky’s hips lifted on their own accord, pushing into Steve’s hand. The pressure increased, Steve’s fingers curling, and he squeezed harder, tighter. Bucky moaned again, this time loud enough to deafen. He didn’t care about the noise, especially not as Steve’s thumb flicked over the head of his cock before moving down to pump again. Bucky gave himself over to the feeling and felt himself throb within that tight tunnel.

Fingers curling in the back of Steve’s hair, Bucky struggled to get the rest of his body to act. It was responding, that was for sure, but that response drained all thought and ease of movement clean out of him. Finally, he managed to drop one hand, no doubt snagging and ripping at strands of hair as he went, and somehow that hand found its way to the front of Steve’s pants. 

It didn’t get him very far, though. Steve batted his hand away, grasping at Bucky’s wrist and pinning it against the cold earth. Bucky shivered, half hating the feeling of being trapped and half loving it, especially as Steve’s lips ghosted over his throat, his beard tickling as he whispered. “Just you.” 

And who was Bucky to object? 

Steve knew what he did to him; he knew the effect of each and every flick of his wrist. Some slow and languid, some fast and rough and others just squeezing. Each time his hand moved, Steve’s mouth followed, sometimes biting at Bucky’s collarbone, other times licking at the thudding pulse in his neck. And when that damn hand did something that would make Bucky gasp, Steve’s lips were right there, stealing the sound before Bucky could form it, keeping their tryst silent and hidden. 

Bucky swallowed and tried to breathe, not even sure he _could_ breathe anymore.

The pressure on his cock increased, and he rocked forward, wanting to slide hot, hard flesh through the tight, slightly damp tunnel of Steve’s hand. Steve seemed to like that, his mouth again curving into that damn hungry smile of his. Bucky could see it clearly even with his eyes closed and something about that had him panting out Steve’s name like a desperate mantra. 

Steve rewarded him by stoking a little faster, a little harder, his hand pressing and squeezing. Heat flared up inside of Bucky, starting at the pit of his stomach and then spreading outwards. It was white behind his eyes, then red, all glowing and orange, pulsing with each stroke against his cock, blinding him even with closed eyes. 

Wrenching his trapped wrist free, Bucky made another blind attempt at Steve. The other man growled deep and low and snatched Bucky’s hand out of the air. For all his training and skills at combat Bucky was found wanting as Steve took charge. He flung Bucky’s arm over his shoulder, shifted when Bucky tightened his grip and then pulled his right hand away from Bucky’s cock. 

Bucky couldn’t help himself. The word was formed and pushed past his lips before he even realised how desperate and needy it sounded. “Please…”

“No.” Steve snarled. He pushed Bucky back again using his right forearm, applying the pressure to the top of Bucky’s chest. His other hand tangled in Bucky’s hair, yanking his head to the side in a way that had Bucky whimpering as his throat was exposed. Bucky watched through half-lidded eyes as Steve licked his lips and ducked forward, his face disappearing out of view. His tongue lapped at Bucky’s collarbone, first warm and soft and then pushing and insistent. 

“Stay!” he commanded, his teeth scraping lightly. Bucky panted, his chest heaving against Steve’s arm and his fingers knotting themselves into the back of Steve’s uniform. He nodded and Steve sunk his teeth in hard enough to bruise; the arm across his chest cut off his whimper. 

Steve pulled back and blew over his hand with a wicked grin on his face. Then that heated hand pushed back inside Bucky’s pants and picked up where it left off. Bucky’s breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel his pulse against the hand Steve had pressed against his neck, pushing him into the wall. With the sudden increase in heat, he gasped and bucked forward. He was rewarded with the tightening of Steve’s hand on his cock as well as a warning push against his throat, Steve’s eyes flashing at him, all dangerous and serious, and for a moment Bucky couldn’t breathe, caught so completely between the two sensations.

It only increased as Steve lent forward, burying his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck. The other man was breathing just as hard, his body grinding up against Bucky with all the wanton need of an animal in heat. Steve was hard, Bucky could feel the way his erection strained against his fatigues, feel the way the other man ground himself against Bucky’s hipbone. 

Bucky turned his head as much as he could, feeling the muscles in Steve’s arm tense warningly. The Spetsnaz ignored it, embracing the way it cut off his air supply and did what he could to turn the tide. He used his lips and tongue to suck the lobe of Steve’s ear into his mouth. Then he used his teeth, clamping down in a bite, returning the favour Steve had bestowed on his collarbone. 

Steve grunted against his neck, jerking him faster, grinding into him. Bucky growled low and gripped Steve’s shoulders tighter, harder. He could feel sweat gathering at the nape of his neck, trickling down over his shoulder, chilling and burning his skin all at the same time. It mixed with Steve’s needy breath momentarily. When Steve licked at it, Bucky saw stars, his head thudding against the side of the foxhole and his mouth falling open. Again, Steve’s teeth sunk in to close around the skin at the junction of his neck and shoulder, searing and tearing and sucking the tender flesh into his mouth. His hand pumped faster, his hips riding against Bucky’s and Bucky met him grind for grind, panting around the tightness in his throat and the arm pinning him there. 

In all his life, Bucky had never been one to beg. Not as an imprudent kid, not as a disgruntled teenager and then an abused cadet. War hadn’t changed that; it had made him tougher and chiselled out his already harsh lines of defiance into defined corners. But with Steve it was different; with Steve _everything_ was different, and before he even knew it, he had started muttering out what breath he had, using words like ‘please’ and ‘more’ and ‘please’ all over again. 

He didn’t know what he wanted. Something, everything. For Steve’s hand to move faster or to slow down. For Steve to lick him or bite him again, or to pull away, turn him around and fuck him senseless; anything to increase the feeling and drown out the reality of the world. Something that would shove him right off that ledge he was clinging to and over into whatever abyss awaited him. Bucky wanted to feel that fire burning its way through his body, taking over and going so damn hot that he was sure he would explode. He wanted to see white and red and black, and the world itself dance behind his closed eyes. 

Steve snarled against his throat, his hips grinding against Bucky’s again and maybe it was insane or maybe it was just dirty and lust-driven, but Bucky was sure he could feel Steve’s heart race with each press of his trapped cock. 

“Come for me,” Steve snarled into his throat, his teeth marking each syllable. 

It was the only order of Steve’s that Bucky had ever followed. 

He could feel his heart racing, feel the way it pounded against Steve’s restraining hand and the way it pulsed in his cock. It sounded like a war drum, something deep and loud and utterly primitive. So fucking deafening that it was all Bucky knew, that and the matching sounds of Steve groaning and growling against his throat. 

Steve’s teeth attacked that already abused spot and Bucky did precisely as his ranking officer ordered. He shuddered and groaned then shoved his hips upward and forward as the fire built. The pressure grew, and Bucky felt himself free-falling, finally losing that grip he had on the ledge of sanity only to tumble into that abyss that he had been so desperate to find. Down there, nothing else existed, nothing but him and Steve and them and their breath. It was dark and quiet, loud and bright all at the same time and Bucky loved it. 

He came in hot spurts over Steve’s fingers, filling his hand and Steve just kept moving, pumping slowly and steadily while rocking his own hips forward. 

Logic dictated that it was only Bucky who could have moaned out Steve’s name but the voice that reached Bucky’s ears was alien. Needy and desperate and wavering. Quivering. He clung to Steve’s shoulders as if his life depended on it; a life-raft in the middle of a storm-tossed sea and without even knowing it, Bucky knew he was pushing against that restrictive arm and pulling Steve’s face from his neck. 

Their lips met with a clash of teeth that would hurt come the morning. Neither seemed to care, and it only took a matter of moments for Steve to conquer Bucky’s mouth with his tongue once again. Bucky met him in the middle, tangling and putting up a lazy battle for dominance that he was always destined to lose. He tightened his hold on Steve’s shoulders and pressed himself as far back into the earth as he could before shifting his weight. It was hard, his body and nerves tingling post-orgasm, but he managed to get Steve’s groin away from his hip and instead replace it with his thigh. 

Steve groaned and thrust harder, working himself against both his pants and Bucky’s. Maybe Steve moaned, maybe it was Bucky or maybe it was the both of them; Bucky’s eyes were closed, his body twitching and he couldn’t focus on even breathing, let alone who made what sound. 

But it was definitely Steve who spoke. 

“Look at me.” For the first time that night, it wasn’t a command. A desperate plea; it had Bucky snapping his eyes open and locking them with Steve’s even as the other man fingered the column of his throat. Vivid blue and lidded with lust, Steve’s eyes bore into Bucky’s like some chilling fire. His index finger pressed into Bucky’s chin, right at the centre of his throat to force his head up. 

Steve licked over Bucky’s lips as his body shook and seized. The way Steve’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes fluttering closed as his hands tightened their grip on Bucky’s skin was enough to tell Bucky that Steve had found his release, even if he had denied Bucky’s hands the pleasure of causing it. 

As if that very action was enough to wash away all of the strain of the last few weeks, Bucky felt himself relax, his limbs going heavy and limp as his back slumped against the wall of the foxhole. 

Bucky could barely keep his eyes open; even the predatory look in Steve’s gaze wasn’t enough to bring clarity and focus back into his mind. Now Steve’s kisses were lazy, filled with a tenderness that Bucky still hadn’t really adjusted to. All lips, no teeth and only a flick of tongue over Bucky’s abused lips, almost as if in apology. Bucky liked it, not that he fully understood it or the sentiment, but it felt nice, as did the way Steve’s hand massaged the back of his neck, occasionally getting lost in his curls. 

Steve shifted first, moving away from Bucky and Bucky couldn’t help but shudder at the loss of heat. 

It didn’t last long. Steve flung himself back against the side of the foxhole, his hand wiping Bucky’s seed off across the ground before flicking loose dirt over it. Bucky watched as Steve reached out for his large pack. 

Bucky’s body was almost completely unable to move; only his hands could function, slowly moving down to tuck himself back in and do up his pants against the sudden cold. Steve was undoing buckles and ruffling through his possessions and Bucky only vaguely wondered what he was doing. He was too preoccupied with the idea of sleep and the way that his eyes felt far too heavy to keep open. 

Perhaps he nodded off; he had no way of telling and no way of knowing how long Steve scrounged through his pack. All Bucky knew was that when Steve’s hands were on him again, they came as a surprise, forcing his eyes to crack open.

“Tomorrow,” Steve said quietly, his arms moving to pull Bucky flush against him. Bucky merely grunted at the idea of tomorrow. He’d be happy if it never came, foxhole-grave or not, he would happily stay in this little ditch in the ground with Steve and not have to deal with what tomorrow might bring. 

“Tomorrow,” Steve repeated, his lips brushing against Bucky’s skin in a way that made him arch up despite himself. When a protein bar appeared at his lips, Bucky bit into it without thought. He endured the fussy need for him to take a few more bites, eating the whole bar out of Steve’s hands before the Captain finally let him rest against his shoulder. 

Tired and spent, Bucky let Steve pull him closer and wrap his army issue blanket around his shoulders. “Tomorrow. You ride in the jeep.”

All Bucky could do was nod, his mind too sluggish to realise that, for better or worse, Steve had won a game Bucky hadn’t even realised they were playing. 

*****

The back of the jeep was bumpy, the crates sliding between them all each time the wheels hit a ditch or rock. 

Bucky rocked back and forth, almost being lulled into sleep. Waking up that morning had been hard, Peter’s voice floating into the top of the foxhole calling for his Captain. Bucky had struggled to keep his eyes open as Steve had shifted under him, the other man’s arms tightening and pulling Bucky closer. It was a wholly unusual feeling, both Steve’s arms and Bucky’s inability to give up on the lingering tug of sleep. 

Usually, Bucky woke fast. There was none of that slow, bleary-eyed blinking that people always associated with waking. One minute he was asleep, the next he was awake, functioning and able to shoot the ears of a rabbit three hundred meters away. All of his division had that ability; it was part of the training. Night after night of interrupted rest by the barked commands of Karpov, telling them to get the fuck up ‘cause they were under attack, and the last person to find and hit their numbered target in the training yard would spend the next six hours saluting The Spit. 

They were tough times, and they all had their go shaking at The Spit, but the lesson had stuck, and until now, Bucky had never had an issue escaping sleep. But that morning, Bucky had struggled, and Steve hadn’t made the ordeal any easier. The Captain’s arms were the first problem, the blankets and the way that, at some stage during the night, Steve had opened up his jacket and used that to wrap around Bucky as well. It was one big messy tangle of arms, legs and rough wool that had left Bucky panting and flushed and poking at Steve’s side to try and wake him up. 

Finally, Steve’s eyes had blinked open, diluted blue in the morning light and Bucky had let out a sigh of relief at the prospect of being free. 

But Steve didn’t move. His head did; he moved his head from side to side, stretching out the kinks in his neck and then turned his attention to Bucky. The only other movement was another tightening of those damn arms and Bucky was officially far too close to the other man for this time of the morning. 

“How are you feeling?” Steve asked, the question catching Bucky by surprise. His voice was hoarse and dry, crackling in the back of his throat and strained from the cold. 

“Huh?” Bucky knew he wouldn’t have sounded any better and he idly wondered if talking hurt Steve just as much as it did Bucky right now. Even just that small sound felt like nails clawing at the back of his throat. 

“You didn’t sleep well,” Steve pointed out rather blandly. Always straight to the point. Bucky raised an eyebrow in question and Steve continued. “You were having a fit or something last night,” he rubbed at his jaw and Bucky could have sworn that he saw the early stages of a bruise starting to form there. “And then the fever set in. I’ll have you know you almost dislocated my fucking jaw when I tried to keep you warm.”

Bucky blinked. “Oh,” he breathed out. Well, that would explain the tangle of blankets and why he was currently so damn far into Steve’s lap that the folds of the other man’s trench coat could wrap around his back. “Sorry. I…”

Steve’s hand moved to Bucky’s head, pressing in against his skin and he wasn’t too sure what to make of it. Either he was cold, and Steve’s hand was the warmest thing ever, or the tingling sensation was because he was hot, and Steve’s hand was cold. He couldn’t tell. Bucky just knew there was a considerable difference between the feel of his skin and that of Steve’s and Bucky wasn’t even so sure that the tingling was a pleasant sensation or not. It was like ice to break a fever, or thick clothing in the desert to stop skin burning under the sun. It made sense, and yet it didn’t, all confusing and before Bucky even realised it, a deep bone-rattling shiver ran the length of his spine. 

Bucky squirmed when Steve didn’t remove his hand. It pulled a soft tisking sound from the back of Steve’s throat before the other man finally conceded. 

“Your fever is still there,” Steve informed him rather unhelpfully. He let go of Bucky’s waist, pulling his jacket back from around Bucky. Next, he tackled the blankets and just when Bucky thought it was actually free, Steve flicked the damn thing out and wrapped it around Bucky’s shoulders, tucking the ends in under his arms. “Keep this on. That’s an order.”

“Steve.”

“It’s a good thing you are riding in the jeep today.”

Bucky sighed and shook his head, memories of the night before floating back to him. Damn Steve and his ability to get Bucky to agree to almost anything; fucking mind games. His sleep laden mind scrambled to find a way he could talk himself out of it, some loophole that Steve wouldn’t have thought about. 

Steve seemed to pick up on Bucky’s hesitance, his look darkening and his eyebrows knotting together. “You _will_ be in that jeep, Bucky.”

“Steve, I-”

“Which shall it be, Barnes? Shall I remind you that you made a promise between us, ranks not inclusive? Or shall I go straight into the articles pertaining to the required disciplinary action of an NCO disobeying a direct order from a ranking officer?”

Bucky’s heated glare was met full-on, Steve’s eyes as dark as the damn grave they were in, his lips pressed into the tightest of lines. Bucky was still too sleep muddled to understand that Steve, Captain or not, technically had no jurisdiction over him. 

“Now,” Steve continued, his tone still snappy and direct. He tugged and pulled at the blanket to no real means that Bucky could see. The edges ended up folded and rolled, pressing in tight under his chin, almost suffocating in their closeness. “You will keep this. And you will have a proper damn meal – no sneaking rations to Pietro or Wanda – and then so help me god, you will spend the rest of the day in the jeep getting some rest. Understood?” 

Bucky knew that he had been beaten. Steve had that look about him that he only got with disrespectful privates; commanding and deadly serious. The only way to break that was a full-on argument, and right now, Bucky didn’t have the strength or energy for that. 

“Yes,” Bucky muttered, adding in a sarcastic “ _sir_ ,” at the end just because he felt like being spiteful.

And that had been the end of it. Steve had broken his stony resolve long enough to kiss him further senseless before rolling the snow-covered tarp back. They had scrambled up out of the foxhole, Bucky trying to accidentally – on purpose – lose the damn blanket only to find Steve right there, yanking it back on and snarling about pinning it to his damn skin if he had to. They had all packed-up camp, gathered their belongings and walked back to the jeep. Falsworth and Rollins had uncovered it, and Rumlow had claimed the right of driver. It had taken ages to get the damn thing started, the engine whirring and threatening to flood but finally, they had been on their way. 

The rest of the day had been a blur. Bucky wasn’t too sure if it was because of the monotony of just sitting and watching bleak scenery lurch past, or if it was due to the fever that seemed to come and go as it pleased. He had a burn in the back of his throat, all scratchy and thick. It carried up to behind his nose, making breathing hard. His limbs were heavy, his neck sore and right at the back of his throat, there was a lingering, tickling sense of an impending cough that he couldn’t entirely dislodge. 

A common cold. 

Even now, sitting in the back of the personnel carrier, Bucky could feel it running through his system. Steve had made all sorts of fussing scenes getting Bucky into the jeep, wrapping him in yet another blanket and making sure he had the corner spot next to the passenger seat. Steve was in the front carriage today, always looking over his shoulder in a way that had his head almost bumping with Bucky’s every time the jeep lurched. It was all sorts of annoying, but it wasn’t like Bucky could openly say as much. 

Left with no choice other than to grimace and bear it, when Peter had pulled a deck of cards from his bag and challenged Morita to a game, Bucky had oddly jumped at the chance for distraction. The rest of the men looked at him like he had grown three extra heads; it wasn’t often that Bucky paid them any attention, let alone actively sought to be included in their antics. 

And he wouldn’t get another invite any time soon.

So far, he had only lost two hands. Wanda was guarding his winnings like a hawk; three packets of cigarettes – all won from a rather pissed off looking Rollins – some lighter fluid, two watches, a serve of K-rations and a spare pair of socks. Not bad for a day’s work. 

They didn’t stop driving. Perhaps they all had the same fear as Bucky; if they stopped the damn vehicle then maybe it wouldn’t start again. The engine was starting to make a ticking sound, the gears crunching each time Rumlow dropped and revved to get the truck through the treacherous terrain. No one complained about the lack of breaks. Bucky gathered that they were all just happy to be off their feet and travelling in what was considered comfort after so many weeks of walking. 

For Bucky though, it was boring. Even the idea of walking until his feet blistered seemed more appealing right now. The lurching of the personnel carrier had a way of almost lulling him to sleep and somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered faceless and voiceless words from his youth. When sick, soldier on; don’t stop and give into it. That was how illness took over. It stormed the body when it was lax and lazy. 

Yet Bucky sat, wrapped up in those damn blankets and tried to keep himself awake. There was little else he could really do. The cigarette that dangled between his lips helped to keep him aware of his surroundings. That and the cards he grasped in his left hand. He had a good hand; full house, Jacks high and Peter was as readable as a book. He had a way of wiggling his nose when he was trying to bluff, and Morita seemed to have no idea what bluffing even was. The other soldiers had jack shit all. Rollins had already folded though Bucky suspected he had the better hand out of the other three, he just had nothing else he could bear to lose. 

And so the day rolled by just as slowly as the hills. One tree gave way to another, one bump in the road being replaced with a crevice and ditch and each and every mound of earth looked the same as the one ten minutes before. 

And then the truck let out an unearthly screech that had Bucky reaching for his knife. It lurched, shuddered and stalled. Rumlow turned the key, the engine choked, and nothing happened. Just like that. No preamble, no warning other than the already bumpy ride. One minute they were going and then next they weren’t. 

Bucky wormed his way out of the ludicrous amount of blankets and peered over the rails into the driver’s cab, lit cigarette dangling precariously from the side of his mouth. Rumlow turned the key again, the engine grinding and hissing and the effort amounting to nothing. 

“Out of fuel,” Wanda said at his side, her tone leaving nothing open for discussion. Bucky translated what they’d all no doubt already feared. 

“We’re back on foot from here,” Steve started as he swung down from the passenger seat. It pulled a small groan from the men even though they all knew the decision was unavoidable. Even so, they jumped from the back of the jeep. Bucky following along behind, the blankets all but forgotten in his little corner. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw Wanda pocketing all of Bucky’s winnings, patting them into her pockets while buckling the watches onto her thin little arms. 

Steve continued as Bucky’s shoes hit the slush of the road. “Pack up as many supplies as you can; we’re gonna need them.”

The rest of the men moved, eyeing the crates of rations and ammunition with resolved abhorrence and Bucky stepped up to join them. Steve cut him off.

“Barnes, stand watch.” Bucky could have snarled. He hated it when Steve – _Captain Rogers_ – referred to him by his last name. It marked his words as an order, and as much as Bucky didn’t claim Steve to be his leader, there was no way he could deny such an unmistakable command. It was only made worse by the look that Steve sent him while he barked the words out; searching and worried despite the tone. Steve didn’t want him doing the physical work, the lifting and moving that all the other men were forced to do as they unloaded the truck. Maybe Bucky should feel happy, or perhaps he should feel touched that the other man was so worried and protective, but something about it drove Bucky mad. 

With no choice but to follow damn orders, Bucky moved off to the side of the road and turned his eyes to the South. He could hear the others grunting and panting behind him, the rattle of ammunition and boxes of tins being hefted from one to the other and dropped onto the ground. After that came unpacking and packing, unpacking again and then repacking, muttering curses and questions of ‘can you fit this in there?’ and ‘got any spare room?’

Bucky ignored it all, lit up another coffin nail, inhaled deeply and then coughed violently into the palm of his hand. It left him wheezing.

“How are you feeling?” Bucky blinked at the voice, startled at just how close Steve had managed to get. He was practically leaning over Bucky’s shoulder, whispering his question into his ear and Bucky hadn’t even heard him coming. Something about that unsettled Bucky. Steve sure as hell couldn’t be getting stealthier which meant that Bucky had been too far gone in his own thoughts to pay attention to his surroundings. 

“Fine,” Bucky replied though the rasping cough that followed gave him away. He refused to look at the other man, not wanting to see what he knew would be reflected in Steve’s eyes. 

Metal flashed at the corner of his eye and Steve’s water bottle filled Bucky’s vision. 

“Drink,” Steve instructed, pushing the canteen to Bucky’s mouth. At the same time, he grabbed Bucky’s smoke, took a drag himself and then stamped it out in the mud. 

“I’m fine,” Bucky repeated, turning his head away from the neck of the bottle. It brought his eyes in line with Steve’s, and something about that made Bucky pause. That and the way Steve spoke the single word, “Please.” 

Bucky wanted to be angry, he really did. He wanted to feel that flush of anger at all of Steve’s worrying and stupidly protective ways, but with the other man standing so damn close and looking at him so damn intently, and all those _damn_ memories of the night before so fresh in his mind, the only thing Bucky could do was reach out and help Steve guide the bottle. Steve didn’t let go of it, not even when Bucky’s own hand closed around the cold metal, so Bucky just tilted his head back and gulped the cold water down. 

Bucky went to pull away, and Steve pressed on, his hand ghosting over the small of his back, “a little bit more,” being whispered against his ear. 

Bucky closed his eyes and did as he was told. He drank until he thought he was going to burst and only when he looked at Steve again, eyes almost imploring as he struggled to swallow more did Steve pull the bottle back and step away. 

Watch all but forgotten, Bucky turned and looked at the vehicle, ever aware of Steve’s silent presence beside him. The other man seemed to radiate heat; Bucky could feel it almost prickling through his uniform and the fact that Steve was watching him didn’t make the situation any easier. 

Desperate for any sort of distraction, Bucky trudged across the muddy road, reached into the passenger carrier and dropped the handbrake. 

“Help me push it off the road,” Bucky called to the men. Of course, it was Peter who came first, and wherever he went, Morita followed. Steve slid up to the left of Bucky and wormed his way in between, pushing him away from the jeep. Bucky settled for shooting Steve a dirty look that said he wasn’t amused at being babied and resigned himself to guiding the vehicle from the side. 

Between the four of them, they muscled it off the road, up over the small incline of the forest floor and then down into a ditch. It wasn’t the best cover-up – not by far – but once Bucky threw a few branches and Peter kicked up some dirt, it couldn’t be seen by anyone on foot from the road. If they were riding past in a tank, then it would be a different story, and they all hoped that the idea of a tank this far out in the middle of nowhere was pretty slim. 

There was no point in delaying the inevitable after that. No one needed to voice the tactical need to be away from the jeep; it was like a glowing beacon of their presence and with only a few hours of daylight left, it was best to get down to business and start the long hike. The more distance they could put between them and the broken-down German truck, the better. 

Bucky watched as the men seemed to sink into the muddy earth. What had once been a heaven-sent was now a burden, the extra supplies pulling their shoulders down towards the ground. Even Wanda shouldered a bag. The rest was packed in around Pietro on his sled, Dum Dum and Falsworth twisting the rope around their gloved hands with a sigh, getting ready to pull. 

It was back to pushing their way through the woods, slugging it through mud and snowdrifts and stepping carefully over ice. And that was getting worse. Bucky hadn’t been wrong when he had told Steve it was getting colder and Steve had been spot on about winter coming. Bucky had well and truly lost track of the date, but if this very day wasn’t the start of the real Russian winter, then it was only days away. 

Steve brushed past him, walking through the men with a calculating eye and Bucky felt warmth over his shoulder as that damn blanket returned. Frowning, he pulled it free and battled against that want to deny the need for unnecessary privileges. Instead, he knelt to the ground and did what he knew Steve expected of him. 

Rolling the blanket up into a tight swag, Bucky tried to stuff it into the pack he had found in the back of the personnel carrier. He had never carried more than the basic necessaries – no Spetsnaz ever did – but now he was willing to weigh himself down with the bothersome pack to keep that extra warmth. 

He hefted the pack onto his shoulders, licked his lips to stifle another cough and turned his attention to the road ahead. Surprisingly it felt like the world was righted again. Things were back to normal, and as he struck out first, forever in front and leading the way, he could feel the burn of Steve’s eyes on his back. 

*****

Two days later, when the coughing got worse, and Bucky looked into the palm of his hand and saw blood, he didn’t tell anyone. 

*****

**Part VI Preview:**

And then he was falling, the earth was moving, and he felt like he was going to be sick as pain tore through his body. 

Steve had screamed, and bullets cut the air above him. Bucky didn’t know; couldn’t know what was happening. He was burning up, lost in his own world of ice and fire that consumed all. He coughed, and he moved and yet his mind was hazy, control gone from his limbs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: some parts of this fic are so old, and have been kicking around my harddrive for so long, that this was actually the first smut scene I ever wrote!


	6. Part VI - Is it God's? Is it your sweet saliva?

**Part VI**

_Is it God's? Is it your sweet saliva?_

*****

Avoiding Steve had turned out to be easier than Bucky had anticipated. At first, Bucky had thought that it would be impossible. They were such a small group, such a tight circle as they trudged through the unforgiving winter, that finding space was practically impossible. 

During the day, he did what he always had. Bucky stayed out front, scouting the way and keeping well out of reach the others. 

He could stifle his coughs that way, and wash the blood off his hands in the snow.

For the last week, Bucky had made his excuses as night fell. He wasn’t tired, so he would take watch. He saw dog tracks out yonder so he would hunt and find food. He couldn’t sleep so he would slip away from Steve’s hands before the other man could get too close, and do a better job of hiding from Steve’s search attempts. 

Wanda had proved harder to hide from. She stuck to him like a flightless bird holding onto a branch, terrified eyes wide and shifting as Bucky left camp time and time again. But she trusted Steve, and Bucky played them off against each other. He worked at replacing himself with each of them; Wanda could sit by Steve in his foxhole and Steve could cover the girl with his blanket at night instead of Bucky. 

It wasn’t easy –far from it – but it was right, and with the prospect of death knocking, Bucky was all about making amends for his indiscretions. Besides, his mind was set, and when that happened, Bucky saw things to the very end. 

He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t take the chance that he’d spread his sickness. 

Red. The colour had never held as much meaning as when it had splashed across his hand that first night, warm in the cold and yet chilling him to the bone. 

Somewhere between that night and now, crouched in the white of winter with a half-frozen stream to wash away his sins, Bucky had made peace. He was dying. It was as simple as that. No point in sugar-coating the harsh slap of reality. War took lives; bullets opened up skin, knives stopped hearts and bombs tore limbs. And above and beyond all that, the body controlled it all. Sickness was part and parcel with the cruel world they lived in, and Bucky was destined to be just another causality. 

Alone in the snow, he coughed, his chest heaving and his ribs screaming out with the pain of a hundred of deaths. He gasped, his arms wrapping around his middle and his head spinning light. But no one was there to witness it, no one was there to peddle backwards in fear, and for that, Bucky was thankful. 

Never before had he been so appreciative of what Karpov had turned him into. A killing machine maybe, or a soldier who could survive friendless under even the harshest of conditions. Or someone so far detached from the world of the living that death was never far away. It made this easier to bear.

Bucky washed his hands in the stream, eager to be rid of the stains of death that covered them. It was setting in slowly, he knew that, but it didn’t change anything. Slow or fast, it was there, and it was only a matter of time. It would start in his lungs, he knew that, and if he was lucky, that would kill him. Those unfortunate would linger as it spread, taking over the bones and the throat. Killing slowly from the inside. 

Tuberculosis, consumption, the white plague; it consumed like wildfire, and no amount of crying to the heavens would see it stop. 

Bucky didn’t like it. He wanted to rage and scream, to sink to his knees and cry out to the world and ask what he had ever done to deserve an end like this. But he already knew that answer. He had killed. He had weighed up the value of other lives against his own, and he had acted accordingly. He had shot and cut his way through more men than most. Life and death, sacrifice and sooner or later, fate would come knocking to demand payment. The least Bucky could do was face his destiny with an element of grace.

As the coughs subsided, Bucky collapsed from his knees to a sideways sit. He kept himself propped up with his bloody hands sinking in snow and simply stared. He didn’t feel the cold. But the blood? He could taste it at the back of this throat, he could feel _that_ heavy on his tongue. He spat it to the ground and watched as it made the tears of winter hiss and melt. 

Part of him didn’t want to believe what was happening. It was all that remained of his childish innocence; the last lingering sign that he was still just a young man. That little part of his heart seemed unable to come to terms with the reality of the situation even as his Spetsnaz-trained mind ran through the routines. 

He knew there was no immediate cure. They had been working on it for hundreds of years, and the best they had was cough syrup to help ease the pain and experimental doses of Pyrazinamide. That and the operations. Horror stories right out of the eighteenth century still practised today. Crush the infection; that was the basic principle of it. Break the ribs into the infected lung, puncture it till it deflates and starves the disease. Cut open skin and organ alike, plopping porcelain balls into the lung cavity and let gravity do its job. 

Slow, painful, barbaric, disfiguring and the chances of survival were still slim to none. 

It all seemed so surreal like it was happening to someone else. Alone, out in the snow, Bucky almost convinced himself of just that. It wasn’t real, it was a bad dream; a horrific story happening to someone Bucky didn’t know. A part of his brutal training that was messing with his mind under the guise of preparation.

But then he would cough again, blood would warm his hands and reality would come crashing back in. 

So he had found it easier to deal, to cope and remind himself, with every damn step that he was dying. It was better than allowing himself hope. Bucky’s training had given him the strength to come to terms with death and horror in ways no one else could, just as it had taught him to deal with his own shortcomings. Now they all boiled down to one and Bucky, sitting there watching the water run pink, was dealing with that. 

He had to. 

Soldier on. Never stop. 

Complete the mission. 

“Bucky?” Bucky felt his heart skip a beat. Every muscle in his body froze. Years of training and combat deserted him with that single damn sound and Bucky, for the first time in his life, couldn’t react. 

“You’re hurt?” 

“I’m fine.”

And then Steve was right there, far too close in the snow beside him and his hands were searching. Looking for a wound that didn’t exist; a cause for the blood he could obviously see streaked across the white. 

Bucky knew about the sickness; everyone did. It spread and took life with no discrimination to either side of the war. Some called it God’s hand, dwindling down the numbers with random precision. All it took was blood, a glob of spittle or a shared mug. Sometimes it sets in through weakness and injury, taking those already suffering, and making their demise even worse. Once it was there, nothing could stop it, and in the company of others, it could be passed on with merely a cough aimed in the wrong direction. 

A shared breath and a kiss was a death sentence. 

“You should be with Wanda,” Bucky said plainly, his body tensing and moving away from Steve’s searching hands. “She doesn’t like to be alone.” It was all that came to mind; a simple attempt to try and get the other man away from him. 

Bucky pushed himself to his feet; Steve followed. There was that look on Steve’s face that drove Bucky wild; a searching form of questioning that was both lost and confused and yet determined and demanding. Steve wore it when his mind was set on course and when he wouldn’t be denied. 

It was then that Bucky’s body betrayed him. He felt his breath catch in his throat, his body tense, his ribs scream… and then he coughed. Blood spat straight into his hand, red and bubbled with saliva and Bucky closed his fist quickly. 

Not quick enough. Karpov could say what he wanted about the differences between ordinary soldiers and the Spetsnaz elite, and most of the time, it was true, but Steve worked at blurring those lines. He moved with all the speed of a viper, and before Bucky could do anything to stop it, Steve had one hand wrapped around Bucky’s wrist and the other prying his fingers apart. 

The blood shone like rubies in the grey daylight, and Steve’s eyes went dark like the night. He knew instantly; he saw the blood and understood, and Bucky felt like he was trapped by more enemies than he could ever cut down. 

“How long?” Steve asked, right at the same time as Bucky said; “It’s nothing.” 

Eyes clashed, both men staring at the other with faces set into stubborn defiance and scowls. Bucky went to wrench his wrist free just as Steve’s hand clamped down, anticipating the move. It left them at a standstill.

Steve broke first.

“I said, _how long_?”

“A week,” Bucky admitted with a sigh. He could see the pieces fitting together in Steve’s mind; the way he factored in all of Bucky’s actions and distance. Bucky couldn’t watch. His eyes flicked momentarily down to Steve’s tight grip and gave another tug while looking towards the stream. “Now let go.”

Steve did just the opposite. 

He yanked roughly on Bucky’s wrist, and then all Bucky could see and feel was the other man. Arms around him, pulling him close and Bucky’s tainted hand was lost somewhere in the crush. He could feel Steve’s breath on his skin, warm and uneven and then those arms tightened, and Steve’s lips were searching for his. 

“No!” Bucky hissed, yanking himself away from Steve’s hands and mouth. He shoved at Steve’s chest with all the strength he had; it was a lot. It sent Steve staggering backwards, kicking up snow as he went, and Steve almost fell into the river that had failed to hide Bucky’s sins. “Are you fucking crazy?”

Steve’s retort came back quickly, spat out and loud enough to deafen. “I don’t care!”

There was a part of Bucky that was disgusted. At himself; at Steve; at the way they felt. It was heavy in his stomach, making his head whirl dangerously and it felt like the earth was shifting, the ground spinning until the sky was white and the trees grew downwards towards the sun. 

It gave Steve the moment he seemed to want – to need – and Bucky, for all his training and all his strength and conviction, was powerless to stop him. 

Bucky’s back hit the tree, Steve’s hands sinking into his hair and his mouth taking everything. _Everything_ from Bucky. Eyes closed, Bucky whimpered, the sound defeated and miserable even as he met Steve’s tongue with his own. He couldn’t help it. All rationality and thought faded away when Steve touched him. His hands were like fire on Bucky’s skin, twisting and grabbing at his hair and holding him right there so Steve’s tongue could do its damage. 

Pulling back, Steve’s breath misted in front of them; Bucky couldn’t feel the cold. But he sobbed; a single, shaking sound that had Steve pressing closer and Bucky hating himself even more than he thought possible. 

Steve’s head rested against his own, foreheads pressed, and Bucky knew that Steve was staring at his closed eyes. Grips tightened on hip and in hair as Steve shuffled even closer. When he spoke, the words were soft and strained, notes of fear and hurt and something akin to blind terror strangling his usually stoic tone. 

“Don’t hide from me, Bucky. You’ve got no reason to now.” 

Bucky broke the moment Steve lent back.

Gasping in a fiery breath, he was on his knees before he’d even known he was falling. Gloved hands sank into slush as he wheezed and panted, his chest rising and falling in his desperate need to just breathe; to feel something real. 

“I don’t want to die.” Childish. That was how Bucky’s mind viewed the words, but that didn’t stop them from coming. Over and over again he said them, his face flushing as his eyes stung with tears.

He didn’t want to die. No one did. But like this? Even when he had folded his civvies and put on his training uniform, Bucky had had the feeling that he wouldn’t see the end of the war. Recruits were sorted into two groups; those that spent their time entertaining the dreams of heroes and those that faced the world with bleak understanding. Most of them would not make it through; it was an accurate statistic, and Bucky had always been part of that second group. When Karpov had walked him through the Siberian Wastelands and Bucky had seen the tips of tents off in the distance, that thought had only intensified as his chance of survival dropped dramatically. 

He had seen himself taking a bullet, alone in the snow as he spied on an enemy that spied on him. Bucky had seen himself facing a grenade and being powerless to prevent the explosion that would follow. Bombs and knives in the dark; just another causality that would turn into a number once the lines were drawn between winner and loser. 

Never had he seen himself wasting away as infection clawed at his lungs. 

Steve’s hands were on his face again, lifting his head as his gloved thumbs rubbed the tears from Bucky’s cheeks. Bucky knew that he was looking at Steve, that the other man had lifted his head high enough to bring their eyes together, and yet he saw nothing. Just a thin, dark shadow of a future he would never have. 

“I won’t let you,” Steve’s words found their way to Bucky’s ears through Bucky’s erratic panting. They didn’t make sense to Bucky. Steve seemed to understand that. His arms folded around him, pulling him in closer until Bucky neither knew where each of them ended or who was rocking who. 

“I won’t let it,” Steve repeated over and over again, his words oddly cold against Bucky’s flushed skin. “I won’t let you die. I won’t.” 

They spent the night out in the snow, white uniforms blending with winter; Bucky’s black knife blending with the trees. Steve sat, his back against peeling bark and Bucky curled into his lap, his head somewhere near Steve’s shoulder and their legs tangled. Steve’s fingers carded through Bucky’s hair, slow and soothing and Bucky stayed still as a statue. He was more awake than asleep, struggling to find solace. Steve’s arms were tight around him, his chest flush against Bucky’s back and his head nuzzled into the back of Bucky’s hair. Fingers moved, rubbing and stroking at sections of Bucky’s skin while Steve’s body jerked and shook. 

Bucky pretended to sleep as Steve cried for both of them. 

*****

The first time Bucky collapsed in the snow was the last time Steve let him leave the group. 

Bucky had been out the front, as always, keeping his distance and sickness from the others. Steve had kept his secret, the two of them hiding the signs the best they could. 

Two weeks they trudged in silence, Bucky always ahead, always detached and always feeling warmth at his back as Steve watched. 

At night when Bucky would sneak away, Steve would follow. It always took the Captain time to get everyone settled and somewhere along the line Wanda had taken quite the shining to Peter – with Bucky never there, she had no alternative – and Bucky always made it hard for Steve to find him. He’d cover his tracks in the snow, walk for as long as his shaking legs could keep him going. 

Bucky hated it. Hated the way that Steve always found him, always seemed to know where he was; as if he could turn his nose to the wind like a wolf and sniff Bucky out. No amount of Bucky’s skills seemed to be able to keep Steve away. Sometimes, Bucky wondered if he was even trying any more, and why. Sometimes he was sure he botched the job of hiding his tracks just so Steve would be there sooner.

Still, Bucky hated what happened when Steve finally found him. The other man would lose all stony resolve, and he would be nothing more than an anxious, worried mess, trying to wrap Bucky up; trying to keep him warm; trying to feed him; trying to make him sleep. 

Then Steve would kiss him, and Bucky hated that the most. 

He used to love their stolen moments and the feel of Steve’s hands in his hair, holding him there in ways that no sense of duty or honour ever could. But now Bucky hated it. He hated the feeling of Steve’s lips against his own, of Steve’s tongue slowly searching his mouth and his hands on Bucky’s hips. The way the other man would pull him so damn close and hold him there, his lips and tongue leaving wet lines down the column of Bucky’s neck made the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck stand on end. 

Bucky hated it all. 

It spoke of finality and death, of idiocy and their own shortcomings; of the feelings that Bucky hadn’t wanted to admit. How much he needed the other man, and how much Bucky craved Steve’s touch. How much he’d come to love him. Bucky wasn’t meant to feel, let alone love, so each kiss made him burn with loathing and simmer with confused understanding. 

Each time Steve’s lips found his own, Bucky knew that he was killing the other man. Steve assured him that he didn’t care, that they would share everything until the day that they died, a long, long time from now. Steve told him that he wouldn’t let Bucky die, just as he wouldn’t get sick and that it was only a matter of time before they would be on respite for all they had suffered. 

Steve would take Bucky _home_ because Steve was with him to the end of the line. 

Most of all, Bucky hated the fact that he loved it. 

Steve had a way of saying just the right things, his hands ghosting over just the right places as his lips stole breath and sickness from Bucky in all the right ways. It made Bucky weak, made him want to sink into those arms like a star being swallowed whole by the approaching void. 

In the darkness of their private nights, Bucky gave himself over to belief and relished in it. 

When the grey light of dawn came, they would part. Steve would go back to the camp; Bucky would sit alone and pray that Steve didn’t hear him coughing as he disappeared in the whiteness. 

By the time the others were ready to move, Steve was Steve and Bucky was Bucky and their secret was as well buried and forgotten as the trail of the dead they’d left in their wake. 

So, the first time Bucky collapsed in the snow no one quite knew what to do. 

He had been closer to the group, only just setting out again after reporting back and telling of animal tracks in the snow. It gave the group hope, a chance of hot meat for their meal and Bucky had said he’d do his best to track it. 

Head down, he had banished the coughs that tightened at his lungs and buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Eight meters, maybe nine; ten if he was fortunate. That was as far as he got; Bucky could still hear the company behind him and still feel Steve’s eyes on his back. 

And then he was falling, the earth was moving, and he felt like he was going to be sick as pain tore through his body. 

Steve had screamed, and bullets cut the air above him. Bucky didn’t know, couldn’t know what was happening. He was burning up, lost in his own world of ice and fire that consumed all. He coughed, and he moved and yet his mind was hazy, control gone from his limbs. 

He found out later that it was Steve who ordered the shooting, thinking Bucky had taken a bullet from the gloom. Bucky could remember the way Steve had run forward, risking it all and deaf to Rumlow’s shouts, and he remembered the way Steve’s hands had started searching. Fast and desperate, they covered Bucky’s chest, looking for the wound before stopping entirely as his mind came to terms with the reality. 

A bullet from within; silent and stealthy and they were on borrowed time. 

The rest was a blur of noise and muffled voices, bright lights and Bucky coughed and saw darkness. He heard Steve say they couldn’t stay there, the sound of the gunfire would warn any soldiers in the area and they were all too spooked from the constant parade of ruined, burnt towns to believe that they were indeed on their own. 

They had to move, Steve had repeated, and Bucky had felt his arm being moved as the world tipped again. 

“We leave no man behind,” Steve had said, his arm circling Bucky’s waist and his body hauling the majority of Bucky’s weight. Bucky did his best to stand, aware of what was happening like someone trying to listen to a conversation from underwater. His legs had given way, and he faltered, almost dragging Steve to the ground. 

It was Peter that sided up on Bucky’s right, taking the rest of his weight and after that the only thing Bucky could remember was loathing. 

He was weak; a stronger man wouldn’t let Peter be so close. 

*****

Bucky woke to voices. 

His body felt heavy, and his ribs screamed in pain when he drew in a breath. And his head hurt, a deep-set throbbing that reminded him of the single hangover he had ever had in his life. The night before he went off and joined the Red Army. 

The pain kept him still, kept him unable to move even as those damn voices got louder. He could hear Steve, strong and commanding, and Rollin was yelling. Dum Dum was there too, deep and resounding compared to Peter’s more gentle tone. 

“We leave him,” Rollins said, and Bucky didn’t have to try too hard to work out who they were talking about. 

“No.” Steve’s answer was simple and straight to the point, and Bucky heard Rumlow scoff. 

“He’s as good as dead.” It was Dum Dum that said it through grumbled tones, and Bucky closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. There was nothing harsh in those words, not like how Rumlow or Rollins would have spat it out. It was just the truth, and that was what hurt the most. 

“Don’t say that!” Steve snarled back. Bucky could hear his anger rising. 

“We have to leave him,” Rollins continued, “He’ll slow us down and get us killed, provided he doesn’t make us all sick.”

“We leave him, and we are as good as the damn Krauts.” Above everything, Bucky hadn’t expected that. Not from Rumlow. 

“I thought you would see reason in this,” Rollins shot back. Rumlow scoffed in the back of his throat, and Bucky heard Peter mutter a curse under his breath. “You actually want us to add him to the shit we’re already pointlessly lugging around.”

Bucky tried not to take notice of it. They were just words said in the moment, in the heat of anger and all that shit that Karpov used to say to quieten Bucky’s own temper. He had steeled his heart against it, building his defences and keeping his distance so that words like those couldn’t cut deeply. Yet somehow, they still did. They left a prang in his heart that made his chest constrict.

After all, Rollins was right. They had disliked him when he was valuable, so why should it be different now that he was useless. 

“Are you fucking serious? I mean-” Peter’s voice was shrill, and Bucky could imagine Morita placing his hand on his arm to still him into calm silence. Yet it wasn’t Peter that continued that sentence. 

“You are alive to say these things now because of him,” Falsworth sounded just as angry, and Bucky was left to wonder when they had actually bothered to see him as anything but the killing machine he was. “He’s kept us alive this entire time, and so you want to leave him to die as thanks.”

Dum Dum spoke up then, and once again, Bucky found the other’s words to be sensible. “It’s not like that. He’s sick; he’s _contagious_. It’s not spite; it’s survival. Barnes would be the first to understand that.” And fuck him sideways until he cried, but Bucky did see sense in the words. He didn’t know if he hated himself, Dum Dum or just the world in general more because of it. 

Bucky knew that he should move, that he should say something. There was no point in spying on the conversation, and it would achieve nothing. He already knew how they all felt about him and right now, feeling useless and sick wasn’t helping to justify his own survival. 

Besides, there was that part of him, just as Dum Dum had said, that was cold and relentless enough to know that they were right. He would close the door on someone sick and dying, slowing them all down, just as he had closed that door on the church. The kids had been different. They had a chance, and it would take a special kind of heartless to leave them to die alone in the remains of their homes.

“He comes with us,” Steve finally interjected into the argument. “And if I hear so much as a whisper from any of you about leaving him, or hurting him, or complaining about helping him, then you won’t live long enough to be court-martialled. Understood?”

Bucky felt his heart sink. That wasn’t the way to do this, surely Steve knew that. Intimidation and threats were no way to deal with soldiers already questioning their deployment and already fearing for their lives. Steve would have done better to win them over with sweet words, played the part of the liar and promised them the world for their compliance rather than stubbornly stand against them all. 

Behind him, Bucky could hear Rollins spit to the ground and again, Rumlow’s voice cut into the silence. He ordered Rollins in line and Peter cursed something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like asking permission to hit him. Steve remained silent, and Bucky hoped that the other knew what a dangerous game he was playing. 

Stifling a groan, Bucky shifted in the weight of the blankets, idly wondering where they had all come from, and used shaky arms to push himself upwards. He only got as far as propping himself up on his elbows, his legs and body still on the forest floor. 

It was enough, though. The voices stopped, he heard his name slip from between Steve’s lips and then there were hands trying to push him back down. 

“Bucky, lie back down,” Steve instructed. Bucky did his best to shrug the other man away, annoyed at the attention. 

“They’re right,” Bucky said simply. Steve was silent as he battered Bucky’s hands away and eased him back to the ground. He shifted behind Bucky, moving so that he could pull Bucky’s head up into his lap and Bucky had no choice but to let him. 

“No, they’re not,” Peter spoke for Steve. He crouched down beside them, offering a mug out to Steve. “Careful, it’s hot,” he said as Steve took it. Bucky felt the other man tilting his head, and then that mug of steaming tea was pressed to his lips. 

“Drink,” Steve urged and as much as Bucky hated the fretting attention, he did as he was told. It warmed him to the very bone, sliding easily down his raw throat and loosening the tightness that threatened to strangle his chest. Steve poured the liquid slowly, making sure that Bucky took it all in. 

From the corner of his eye, Bucky saw Wanda standing alone, watching with those damn haunting eyes that said she understood everything that was going on. It made Bucky shiver despite himself, and Steve’s free arm circled around his chest, holding him close. 

“We keep North,” Steve said, loud enough that the rest of the men could hear. Peter and Morita nodded as one. “You have all seen the towns; there are German soldiers out here and without…” his voice faltered, his word catching in this throat and all Bucky could do was close his eyes. “Without Bucky out there, we are walking blind. I don’t want to risk confrontation in the West.”

No one argued, but Bucky heard the sound of a rock being kicked across the snow. From the grunt that followed, he was pretty sure it was Rollins’ doing. 

“Get rest, we go at first light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday and I had plans, but Greece decided against them. Damn you, lent and Clean Monday!!!!! So, instead, I finally got around to doing some editing, so you all get gifts. 
> 
> Kudos and comments shall be a worthy substitute to the birthday cake and cocktails that I'm now NOT having. *sigh*
> 
> Super relevant chapter title taken from: [i i e e e - Tori Amos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Vb_IYIvv6g)


	7. Part VII - Give me something to be scared of; give me something to satisfy

# Part VII

_Give me something to be scared of; give me something to satisfy_

*****

The days passed, their progress slower than ever. 

Rollins and Rumlow had taken up positions as their chief scouts, the two of them a poor substitute in Bucky’s opinion. Twice now, they’d almost walked head-on into a German patrol, and the tracks left in the mud showed that their overall luck wasn’t improving. They were hot on the heels of the invading force, and there wasn’t a night that went by when they didn’t debate their course. 

Heading further into the east was the safest bet, but there was no telling how far the German raiding parties had spread. Besides, east was barren. East was Siberia and snow three times as deep as this. It was also an unspoken truth that east would mean death if Bucky wasn’t around to translate. They weren’t going to find any military units or extraction points that way, and no farm settlements were going to take a rag-tag group of Americans in. Not even if they were protecting an unlikely pair of Russian kids. 

West was clearly a death sentence and a direct path into German-occupied territory. South meant retracing steps, and while that should take them out of the path of the invading force, the Howling Commandos had already picked the destroyed towns clean. There’d be no more supplies to replenish them that way, and even then, they’d be heading into more Axis controlled countries. 

It really only left them with north, following silently behind the marching army. Provided they continued to stay under the German radar, they’d at least have a chance of finding a way into Moscow, or out to St. Petersburg where extraction was a certainty. 

Their direction was obvious, but the sickness was unpredictable. 

For Bucky, it had come on fast and unexpected, hitting him in the only weakness his training couldn’t destroy. He’d been fine one day, and then dying the next. 

Of course, it wasn’t as simple as that, but Bucky’s feverish mind couldn’t find a better way to deal with how suddenly everything had fallen apart. How quickly he’d gone from reliable and independent to stumbling under the weight of a rattling cough. 

He endured the looks sent his way during those times, feeling like even more of an outcast now that Steve had ordered him into the middle of the group. Even Peter kept his distance, his eyes skirting to Bucky and his hands reaching but never touching. Only Steve would help him, pulling him back to his feet each time Bucky’s knees had crumpled him into the snow. Bucky didn’t take it as a personal offence; the more the rest of the group stayed away from him, the better they’d all be. Besides, Peter had taken up Bucky’s spot as Wanda’s main chaperon, and for that, Bucky would forever be thankful. 

The two youngsters had taken quite the shining to each other, and while Peter was never harsh with Wanda, he did do his best in keeping her as far away from Bucky’s violent coughs as possible. Wanda liked to yell at Peter in Russian – though Bucky was sure that she was picking up English at an alarmingly successful rate – and Peter liked to talk nonsense back. Clearly, the poor lad hadn’t realised that Wanda understood a lot more than she let on. 

The worst part of it all, at least for Bucky, was his good days. 

When he was sick and miserable and just _dying_ , it was easy to wallow in his own self-pity. He could be gloomy and morose, shrug away from Steve as much as he wanted and yet always be welcomed back and warmed up. Steve endured it all, never giving more than an exasperated sigh in response to Bucky’s temper, and offering everything once Bucky’s strength depleted. 

But then the flipside came. The days when Bucky felt fine. Honest to god fine. Sure, he’d cough once or twice, and that was never pleasant, but for the most part, he felt the same as he had months ago. Weeks ago. He was sharp, his mind working and his eyes clear and his fingers idly spinning his knives as he slugged through the muddy snow at a snail’s pace. 

He wanted to be out in the woods on those days. Wanted to be scouting and surveying their surrounds, because god only knew that Rumlow was useless at it, and Rollins was even worse. The only one that showed potential was Peter, and he had the much more critical task of keeping Wanda in check. 

It was on those days that Bucky felt like he could take on the world and win. 

He felt exactly how he’d been conditioned to feel. A wild, dangerous animal caged by the limitations of lesser beings. 

Bucky had always been moody and prone to snark, but Karpov had managed to indoctrinate most of that out of him. Taught him to keep it subdued to a simmer below the surface and how to effectively – and ruthlessly – let those pent-up emotions out in a tactically beneficial way. 

But with nothing to do and the weight of those around him bearing on his conscience, Bucky found himself susceptible to snapping and, as Steve put it, getting mouthy. It was like Bucky was looking for a fight. _Itching_ for it. The better Bucky felt, the more destructive and outspoken he became and where once he would have slunk off on his own, keeping his thoughts quiet, now he lacked the luxurious barrier that that distance provided. 

He’d even snapped at Wanda, the heated exchange in Russian drawing the attention of all until Wanda had stormed off and, in turn, taken her anger out on Peter. Bucky’s karma had come in the way of Steve’s disapproving look as the Captain thrust food at him and made Bucky eat it all.

On those days, Bucky was like a bow pulled too tightly, the string straining the wood to the point of snapping, and Bucky tried not to overthink on what that meant for his general mental stability. 

Steve was patient like a saint for the most part, always there with an arm for support, or a shake of the head when Bucky knew he was going too far. Even Steve had his limits, though, and they tended to show when Bucky was pushing all the wrong buttons and insisting on being useful. Steve would have none of it. No, Bucky wasn’t going out on patrol at night. No, he wasn’t going alone. No, it wasn’t his responsibility any more. 

No. No. No, and Steve would tie him to a bloody tree if he kept trying to sneak off. 

Steve had made good on his threat one night, pulling out Bucky’s own rope and brandishing it in a way that was decidedly not hot. 

It hadn’t ended well for either of them. Bucky didn’t think he could ever actually hurt Steve, not even with his training screaming ways to incapacitated and neutralise in his head, but that didn’t mean he’d be bullied around. Steve had ended the incident with a busted lip and wrist twisted just short of breaking point. In return, Bucky had lost his strength to a bout of coughing that lasted for the better part of an hour. 

Steve didn’t need the rope to make Bucky stay put and subdued after that. 

Days dragged on in Bucky’s mind, the hours twice as long and torturous as the minutes. Each step was another nail in a coffin he couldn’t help but see, and each red-tinged cough was a reminder of his own shortcomings. 

With their supplies dwindling and the fragility of their unlikely companions, they stuck to only moving during the day and bunkering down in foxholes and ditches at night. 

Relief from the monotony came in the most horrible of ways. 

It started slowly, just like Bucky’s cough had been little more than a niggling irritation from the cold and one too many cigarettes. 

Pietro had been a quiet kid from the start, his mind muddled with the horrors he’d seen and the toll they’d taken on his body. He was Russian, but he didn’t speak to Bucky like Wanda did. He didn’t even talk to Wanda despite them being of similar age. He’d merely existed, a broken shell of what he had once no doubt been. 

They’d all known that his crushed legs could be a problem, especially in the cold, but as the boy’s whimpers had turned to screams in the night, doubt turned to reality.

For the first time in weeks, Bucky saw blood that wasn’t his own as he cut through the gangrene blacked skin of Pietro’s dead left leg. Sawing through the fractured bone was even harder. Wanda had sobbed as she boiled bandages clean over a fire while Bucky stitched together the flaps of skin untouched by the rot into a messy stump. 

Pietro would never run again; the Howling Commandos’ couldn’t look each other in the eyes as each of them contemplated the morality of a humane decision. 

*****

Bucky knew something was wrong the moment he heard the sound of running feet. He looked up from his knife, the sharpening belt all but forgotten in his hand and saw Peter come tearing through the hole in the wall, his feet launching him over debris with ease. 

“Sir!” Peter huffed between cold-driven pants, his eyes searching out Steve. 

The captain was, as usual, hovering over Bucky like a mother hen. Bucky was having one of his ‘good days’, which meant that he was basically insufferable despite feeling physically better. Steve generally kept even closer during those times, and Bucky was yet to work out if it was due to fear that Bucky would snap and stab someone for being stupid, or if one of the men would try and shoot Bucky to stop his endless ribbing. 

“Convoy.” Peter gasped, his arm flailing in the direction he’d come. 

The entire room seemed to pause; even Bucky didn’t shift. Steve was the only one who moved; who breathed out loud and responded with anything other than shocked silence. 

“Heading this way?”

“Turned off the main road towards the town. They have infantry and artillery,” Peter added. “My guess is they are thinking the same as us. Somewhere dry for the night.”

When they’d found this village, its story had been the same as the last. Wiped off the face of the map by a force still a few days ahead of them. The place still stank of cinders and reeked of death, but the buildings had been in better shape, and there’d been no nasty surprises lurking in the church or streets. 

If Bucky had to guess, he’d put money on the majority of the town cleaning out just hours before the invasion. There were more homely items left untouched, more supplies then they’d seen in weeks, and the only corpses were that of wizened men and green boys. They’d no doubt done their best to hold the Germans off while the rest of the village fled into the wilderness. 

The Howling Commandos took a vote that first night, each of them casting their opinion in the gamble known as survival. 

Three nights later, they were still there, foraging through the town and sleeping with rooves over their heads. It wasn’t meant to be a long-term solution, but the rest and shelter proved good for morale and all their mental states.

All except Bucky. 

He wasn’t naive enough to think that he was on the mend, but it was amazing what being out of the elements could do when your lungs were slowly turning to mush. Even he had to admit that he wasn’t coughing as much, and when the bone-rattling bursts did come, they generally trailed off long before he was retching blood and struggling to breathe. 

It did, however, leave him restless. At least when they were at the mercy of the weather and road, there a sense of purpose in their trudging. 

Now Bucky felt like he was just sitting there waiting to die. 

He couldn’t begrudge the decision, even if he had been one of the very few to vote against staying more than one night. They were all exhausted, all at the end of their tithers; even Peter had been getting short and snappy with his fatigue. Pietro had sunken into himself more, whimpering at every bump and crying his way through the night. Bucky was scared he was going to have to take the other leg. 

Between the crying and the coughing, and Wanda’s abrasive rants that no one but Bucky could understand, moods were tense and fuses short. It was as emotionally taxing as it was physical.

And so they’d voted to stay. Four nights had been the plan, but Bucky was sure that they’d vote to remain longer. Provided the villages didn’t return to their homes and drive them out. 

None of them, not even Bucky, had expected another wave of the enemy. 

“Are you sure they’re Krauts?” Rollins asked. 

Peter didn’t take offence as the questioning and simply nodded his head. They’d all seen enough of the enemy to know them by sight and sound. 

“Pack it up!” Steve commanded. But the men were already moving. Dum Dum was dousing the fire in the room even as Morita kicked the ashes, scattering them across the floor. Rumlow was there, rallying the men as he shouldered his own pack. Falsworth was by the shell-destroyed doors, his eyes peering out the way Peter had come and his gun at the ready. 

Only Bucky moved slowly. He pushed himself to his feet, shoved his knife into its holster, stifled a cough and collected his rifle out of Wanda’s lap. The girl had taken a real shining to it, cleaning it every night with an efficiency that even impressed Bucky. 

Bucky had known all along that it was a bad idea for him to stay coddled away with the others. He should have been out there, guarding the borders of the ruined town with his eyes turned towards possible threats. But Steve had won out earlier that night when their long-running fight of watch duty once again became an issue. The captain had gone so far as to manhandle Bucky into the corner, all hissed words and idle threats that were plainly obvious to the other soldiers. Then he’d shoved a mug of chunky soup and some stale bread into Bucky’s hands and sat himself down, right between Bucky and the door. 

Short of an all-out screaming match, Bucky had been left with no other option than to give in and do just as ordered. He’d sat himself down in that corner, with Steve blocking his exit and had placed the soup next to his leg while pulling out his knife. He wasn’t hungry. But even that choice was taken away when Steve gave him _that_ look, and so Bucky had begrudgingly worked his way through the whole meal.

Each moment that ticked by had hurt. Bucky couldn’t help but feel that he was skimping on his duties. It should have been him out there, not Peter and Dernier taking turns with Rollins and Dum Dum and Falsworth. They needed the rest, needed the food and the warmth. After all, Bucky was already a dead man, and even Steve had to know that. That pissed Bucky off the most. Steve should have understood that Bucky had nothing at all to lose, and they had everything to gain from having his eyes and ears out there. 

Bucky would have given them more warning of the approaching threat; that was for damn sure. 

Looking around the company of men, Bucky hated that knowledge almost as much as he hated himself for seeing the weaknesses. They all moved, trained and seasoned, and yet it would do them no good. Feet and legs against trucks and tanks; they weren’t good odds even in the best of conditions. The rest had done wonders, but nothing could heal the bone-numbing weariness that lingered from their extended mission and longer march. 

Bucky caught Steve’s eyes across the room, vivid blue and seeking hope, and Bucky merely sighed. The sarcastic little voice in the back of his mind told him that this was it. His endgame. Everything they had worked towards was about to go up in smoke, all because they didn’t have enough warning. 

Steve moved around the room, mustering everyone up and packing supplies. Bucky watched him move and tried not to turn his eyes onto the hole Peter had jumped through. When the captain finally moved back towards him, Bucky sucked in a deep breath and took the plunge he could no longer resist. 

“We’ll never make it with the kids,” Bucky said. He said the words softly but fucked if every pair of ears in the room didn’t hear it. 

Steve paused, his face faulting as he turned to look at Bucky. The Spetsnaz saw understanding flash in those eyes. Steve’s mouth moved, but Bucky spoke, faster and more assured with his words. 

Breathing in deep, Bucky nodded slightly, mainly to himself but partly to Steve as well, coaxing him to see the wisdom in Bucky’s words. “Take them,” Bucky said. The convoy was coming from the south, and already Bucky could guess that they would head north. Reinforcements for the assault on Moscow. 

“Don’t go south. God knows how many more are coming. Strikeout east and hunker down for a night or two. Wait for them to move on, then follow their flank to the north. I’ll cause the distraction here and meet-”

“No.” Steve cut him off abruptly, and Bucky felt his temper flare. Steve’s head was shaking from side to side, his mouth set into a thin line of resolve. Was it just because Bucky was sick? Now wasn’t the time for Steve to assert his stupid dominance and they both knew it. Through that, Bucky couldn’t help but wonder if the other man didn’t trust him. He knew it was stupid, a foolish little insecurity that his mind wouldn’t surrender, and yet it was there, right at the front of his thoughts. Maybe Steve didn’t trust him to be useful again. 

“Captain,” Bucky tried, using the other man’s rank in a vain hope of cutting through whatever thoughts were racing around Steve’s mind. 

“Rumlow,” Steve barked over Bucky. The other man snapped to attention as Steve continued. “Lead them the way Bucky said. Dum Dum, Falsworth; look after the kids. Peter, Morita. You’re staying here to help. The rest of you follow Rumlow. We’ll rendezvous at zero-two hundred, ten klicks due east.”

Bucky was shocked. His mouth fell open, his face lax before realisation sank in. Steve didn’t get it, didn’t understand a single damn thing that Bucky had been so worried about. 

“What?” for the first time in his life, Bucky was dumbfounded. “No. You all go.”

“This is not your company to command, Barnes.” Bucky flinched as his family name rolled off Steve’s tongue. It made him feel like a child in trouble. 

“You’ll get in my way,” Bucky snapped back. Childish and immature as they sounded, the words were dead on the truth. Having Steve there would stop everything; hinder Bucky in ways he wasn’t too sure he could deal with. He’d be too worried; too distracted needing eyes in the back of his head to keep an eye on the leader of the Howling Commandos. 

“The longer you argue, the closer they get.” 

Bucky swore, his eye twitching with irritation. Unable to look at Steve, he glanced around the room, catching sight of Wanda. She was standing tall and defiant as always, but Bucky could see the fear in her eyes. She may not have understood everything that was being said, but the room was easy to read. 

Steve was an idiot, but he was right about one thing. The longer they stood there butting heads, the closer the Germans came. 

“I hate you,” Bucky swore at Steve softly. The words felt like ash on his tongue as he moved over to Wanda. 

He’d been keeping his distance from everyone, and Wanda had no doubt seen her fair share of the white plague to know the severity of the situation. It had hurt to be so close and yet so far apart, but they’d managed. Now though? Now Bucky stole a selfish moment to pull her into a hug and pat her head. He held his breath the whole time, then breathed into the fabric of his shoulder when he finally pulled back. 

“I need to stay here,” he explained. “And you need to go with Dum Dum. Don’t leave his side. The assholes are going with you,” Bucky said with a smirk, careful not to use any names, “so be watchful.” 

There were very few things that Bucky was attached to in the world – Steve being the obvious exception – and Bucky’s knives were clear personal favourites. If push came to shove, he’d go as far as to say that he valued his guns more than the lives of several the men in the company, and he’d been trained never to rely on firearms. But Wanda was like the little sister Bucky had never wanted but loved anyway, and so it felt natural to pull one of his sidearms free and hand it over to her. 

Ever the little soldier, the first thing she did was check the chamber and slide the magazine in and out, just like Bucky had taught her. 

“You can’t shoot them just for being stupid,” he joked, and Wanda laughed through the wetness forming in her eyes. “But if they so much as look at you wrong, you aim for the head, and you don’t hesitate.” 

“You better come back!” Wanda hissed while tucking the gun into the waistline of her pants. She’d liberated a pair of army fatigues from one of the Germans they’d killed to get the jeep. After she’d tailored them to fit, she’d been blousing them into her boots, just like Bucky did. 

“I’ll do my best,” Bucky promised. “I’ll even make sure Peter comes back to you,” he added with the sort of all-knowing eyebrow wiggle that only an older sibling could generally pull off. Wanda rolled her eyes and spat a curse, but the blush on her cheeks gave her away. 

Bucky turned his attention to Dum Dum, fixing a dark look on the older man. “You look after her,” he said, switching back to English. Dum Dum nodded and swore he would even as Bucky reached over and liberated the last of the burly man’s grenades from his shoulder holsters. “I think I’m going to need these,” Bucky explained; Dum Dum chuckled and braved thumping Bucky friendly on the back. 

“And you keep that idiot alive,” Dum Dum poked his chin in Steve’s direction. It was nice. No forced sentimentality or words overexaggerating whatever strange relationship Bucky had with them. But protecting Steve? That was Bucky’s job, and that was a parting request he could tolerate. 

“I will.” It was as much of a promise to the Howling Commandos as it was a verbal surrender to Steve’s stubborn decisions. 

“If you stay,” Bucky sighed as he turned to Steve. The room seemed to come to life again, the weird parting of the two Russians had shocked them into silence. “You do _exactly_ as I say.” 

Steve was about to protest. It was all in his eyes, in the way his eyebrows knotted together, and his mouth started to drop open. Bucky shook his head and stood his ground. “Agree, or we all stand here like sitting ducks. Can you live with that?” 

Bucky knew that Steve couldn’t. No man could, not even Bucky. In a way, it was a hollow threat. Even if Steve didn’t agree, there was no way that Bucky was going to stay there and let them get cornered in and killed, or worse, taken. Bucky knew that, Steve knew that, and yet if push came to shove and the Germans were at their door, then Bucky was more adept at dealing with the situation than Steve was. 

Steve’s face showed nothing – Bucky would have been surprised if it did – yet the moment Captain Steve Rogers made up his mind, Bucky could see it. Steve seemed to shrink, his shoulders folding in on themselves and his head getting that little bit closer to the ground. 

Bucky knew he had won before Steve even spoke. 

“You’ve got your orders. Move out,” Captain Rogers conceded, and as one the men headed for the crumbled back wall, Pietro silent on his sleigh and Wanda trailing behind with one last look over her shoulder. 

Bucky waited until they were all gone, Wanda’s eyes no longer on him and the rest of the men out of earshot before he whirled on the three that remained. Steve had agreed to Bucky’s terms and fucked if Bucky was going to pansy foot around now.

He took charge, his words abrupt and snapped with the weight of an order. “Follow me.”

He led the way through the bomb-shattered door, picking his way over the rubble Peter had only just jumped over. Once out in the street, he shushed them with a wave of his hand and took a moment to just breathe. Standing in front of the other three, they no doubt thought that Bucky was looking at his surroundings, but that wasn’t the case. Bucky closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his mouth, feeling the cold bite of the air nip and numb the back of his throat. It burnt. 

In his mind’s eye, he could see the town. Ruined buildings, rubble and shrapnel. Smashed glass and broken furniture. The main street was in shambles but broad enough that the results of the scattered bombings hadn’t blocked the path. That was where they would come. The only place their tanks and trucks could go. 

The Germans would fan out once they came to a stop. Even a platoon that large wouldn’t settle into a camp without scouring the buildings. Bucky and his team would have to strike then, before the Germans scattered and had the chance to double back on them. 

The trick wasn’t to destroy the enemy. This wasn’t meant to be a suicide attack, just a distraction, buying minutes – an hour at the absolute luckiest – for the others to put distance between them. It wasn’t about stopping the enemy, but about confusing them and keeping them occupied. 

For the first time in weeks, Bucky was in his element. This was what _The_ Winter Soldier was made for. 

“Ok, here’s how it’s gonna go,” Bucky finally said as his eyes opened. 

_*****_

**Part VIII Preview:**

Bucky prayed for luck and bolted. Bullets rained down around him and Bucky just ran. He didn’t look, didn’t try to guess what way they would shoot or which way to run; he just let his feet carry him forward and simply hoped for the best. 

It was fucked up, but it worked. 

Breathing deeply, he hurdled the crumbling wall and pressed his back against it, taking cover for what he knew would only be a moment’s respite. He guessed thirty seconds was the max. That was how long it would take a tank to turn its barrel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the b'day wishes last week! ❤️ ❤️ Greatly appreciated. 
> 
> As per always, comments and kudos are also love! Anyone got any wild guesses on where this is all going to end up? Future predictions?


	8. Part VIII - My blood runs cold like the killer you know; the killer you chose

Pa **rt VIII**

_My blood runs cold like the killer you know; the killer you chose_

*****

Bucky could already hear the rumble of the tanks; their treads rising and falling over chucks of blown apart building. 

They didn’t have long. Heavy of heart, Bucky turned back to the three men, his face impassive and blank. That was how they needed him, how they expected him to look. 

Like the killer and the danger that he was. 

“They’ll spook and jump into formation. Don’t get caught in any buildings. I don’t want any snipers coming from windows or rooftops. A shell blast and there will be no getting out of that. Keep low and on the move. We’re not going to get them all and we sure as hell don’t have the ammo; the point is to confuse them; make them think that they are under heavy attack. We buy time, and then we melt out and leave them on edge. If you find a good place to shoot where you can take out lots of them, then _don’t_. Understand? Fire once or twice and then move on. I want them thinking that there is more of us than there actually. We won’t survive if we get pinned down.

“Most importantly,” Bucky finished, taking a moment to look each of them in the eyes. He kept his gaze locked with Steve’s. “Wait for my signal. Do not engage unless they stop. If they roll on through, then all the better for us. Let them go. Understand?”

They nodded their consent, Peter adding in a “Yes, Sir,” for good measure. Bucky nodded back before continuing. 

“Peter, stay with Morita and go to the west. If things get too hot, retreat into the woods and hole up until you can rendezvous with the others. Don’t come back. Steve, you come with me.” 

Again, they nodded. Peter touched Bucky’s arm in a strange show of affection while Morita saluted Steve. And Bucky. The two of them moved out, striking across the road and disappearing behind a blown-out shell of a building. 

Bucky didn’t watch them go for long. The less he knew of where they were, the better. He was already running through plans and ideas, tactical sabotage and misdirection; he could operate better coldly; if he wasn’t aware of where to fire and where to avoid. 

“Bucky?”

“Not now,” Bucky snapped back, and for the first time, Bucky thought he understood why he didn’t want Steve there. This was what Bucky was made for. Everything he had done so far was part of his training, but _this_ , this sort of situation, was what Karpov had programmed him to do. It was yet another thing that Bucky hated, but it was his strong point. The way he could get inside the head of their enemy, the way he could guess at what terrified, startled soldiers would do and find ways to show them hell. 

The way he could look at his surroundings as find ways to kill. 

Bucky was terrified of what he had become in moments like this and Steve was the last person he ever wanted to bear witness to the monster that Karpov had created in Siberia. 

“Bucky!” Bucky wouldn’t have paused, not even at that almost desperate tone, but for the hand that closed around his upper arm, pulling him to a stop. Eyes closed, Bucky let the other man turn him around and for the briefest of moments, Steve’s lips were on his. They were like ghosts, like all the rumours that Bucky heard whispered in his wake and it was all Bucky could do to stop from just shattering. 

“I want to help you,” Steve said the words so close that Bucky could practically taste them; feel the way they sounded against his own lips. “I’m glad I’m here with you.”

Bucky stood back, shook his arm free and turned on his heels before he replied. “I’m not.”

Whether it hurt Steve or not, Bucky couldn’t tell. He didn’t want to know. Head down, he took a mental stock of his provisions. Five grenades, including the ones he had taken from Dum Dum, three knives, his sniper rifle and one out of two sidearms. He had a couple of sticks of dynamite and more shots for his Mosin then he did for the sidearm, though neither was well stocked. He would need something else, something other than just gunfire and flying bullets to get them out of this. 

Bucky picked his way through the broken remnants of the town, Steve right on his heels. They scurried up over a pile of stones and wood, charred and jagged with debris rolling down the mound in their wake. Bucky collected things as he passed; a chair leg, the remains of a smashed vase. When he found an old tin can he couldn’t help but smile and started piling whatever he could into the drum while moving. 

If Steve was confused, he didn’t voice it. 

“The wall,” Bucky said, jabbing at the crumbled outcropping of rock that jutted in between two burnt houses. “That’s your first place. Then the old bakery. From there we’ll move up the street, two houses before doubling back once they start shooting.” Steve nodded, never once voicing the emotions that shone so brightly in his eyes. Bucky was glad for that. 

They slid down the side of the rubbish heap as the rumble of engines grew louder. 

“To the wall,” he commanded, adding in a jab of his head. He saw that spark of defiance flare in Steve’s eyes and this time he was prepared. “I need cover fire. In case they have scouts.” It was a bullshit lie, but it worked. As much as Bucky loathed it, Steve was pretty much willing to do anything – even follow orders – if it meant he felt he was keeping Bucky out of danger. 

Part of him felt like an ass for playing on that weakness, and the other part of him couldn’t care less.

As Steve moved to take his first position, Bucky dashed across the road, head lowered. He dropped the can somewhere in the middle; out of the way of the trucks and yet close enough for his plan to work. Then he struck out toward the oncoming threat, his feet somehow not snagging on the uneven ground. A quick glance to the right had him lining up his next point of attack, and he knelt down while reaching behind him and pulling out a roll of explosive from the side of his small pack. His hands dug in the earth, pushing aside dirt and debris so he could bury it out of sight. He placed one of Dum Dum’s grenades over the top and hefted a chuck of broken brick over one side, hiding it from view. 

When that went off, it would cause one hell of a distraction. 

Even so, Bucky still felt painfully unorganised. The 181st were created for spur of the moment sabotage, not a defence and everything that Bucky knew about fortifications dictated that he should have more. More surprises, more booby-traps, more places to fall back on when under fire. A contingency plan backed up by a second and a third and then an alternate escape route should all else fail. 

Steve was where he had told him to take cover, poised and ready, and Bucky could see the barrel of his rifle sticking out over the wall. The German’s wouldn’t though, not unless they knew exactly where to look. The gun appeared like just another piece of shrapnel blown to bits from the previous assault. 

Bucky nibbled on his bottom lip. The pressure helped keep him grounded. He wanted nothing more than to climb over that wall and slide in next to Steve; to at least have the other man beside him as they waited for the gates of hell to open. Steve would be warm and solid, and they could calm their nerves in the silence of companionship. 

Rationality won out, as did the gnawing voice of Karpov in his head. Battle wasn’t the place to be seeking company. It wasn’t a place for emotions; nowhere was. Emotions made you vulnerable; opened up weaknesses. A true Soldat leant to feel nothing and Bucky had been feeling too much for too long now.

With a shaking breath and a small nod towards Steve, Bucky moved a little further down the road, closer to the oncoming assault. He’d be able to trigger his traps better from there, and then Steve would be able to cover him as Bucky leapfrogged up the buildings. 

Hunkering down behind an abandoned truck, Bucky checked his lines of sight. Clean on the entryway, and the truck and another shelled-out car would provide good cover back to the edge of the stone fence. It was a good position. 

The sound of the approaching convoy grew louder and closer. The windows of the truck at his back rattled with the vibrations caused by the enemy tank.

He caught Steve’s gaze out of the corner of his eyes; the Captain offered him a small nod and Bucky watched as Steve realigned his rifle. The muzzle was aimed to Bucky’s left, ready to suppress the movements of the enemy the moment Bucky needed it. 

One minute turned into two, then three and four, and all around him, the earth shuddered and rattled. There was something so harrowing about the sound of artillery. So heavy, so indestructible; it was like the armies of hell were rolling their way closer with a deep, mechanical drumbeat. Bucky closed his eyes and waited. 

Eventually, the breaking point came. 

The game was up the moment the infantry called for a halt, and the rumbling of the tank came to a standstill. It was clear that they were at least going to take a respite in the town. That would mean searching sweeps through the buildings and the discovery of the obvious camp space. In turn that would mean the Germans would investigate and from there they’d see the tracks in the snow and run the Howling Commandos and kids down. 

Bucky was glad that Karpov wasn’t there to see the way he deflated with a sigh. Karpov would have known then that Bucky still carried hope – a childish concept – and with access to The Spit or not, he would have found ways to drill that out of his favourite protégé. 

Time. _Tick_. Muffled German voices. Tick. Bucky could feel his chest tightening up. Tick. 

The catalysis came in the way of gunshots from the across the street. 

Bucky was torn. On the one hand, he’d given specific orders to wait for his signal. Peter or Morita had jumped the gun and gotten too touchy with anticipation. On the other. Well, the sound of a German crying and falling over was a little too close to Bucky’s hiding spot to be comfortable. 

Calculating rationality said that one of the Howling Commandos had just comprised their entire plan, but his heart said that someone had just saved his ass. 

Everything happened fast after that. The Germans panicked in the way that only a well-oiled military group could. They shouted a lot as knees pressed into mud and guns lifted. No dying noises came from the corpse near Bucky, which lead him to believe that it was Peter who’d dropped him. The kid had always been a good shot. It also meant that the entire force turned their attention on the opposite side of the street. While far from ideal, it did open Bucky up for a counterstrike.

Bucky yanked one of his grenades free and pulled the pin. He threw it like a fast bowler, arm wound back and the bomb sailing with an underarm throw. It bounced and skipped across the field, and even if it didn’t hit his target, then it would land in the middle of the soldiers. 

Bucky, however, never missed. 

The little shell passed almost unnoticed between the men and then came to a harmless, clunking stop against the red tin. One man shouted in German, the others turned to look before bodies made to dive to the side. 

And then the world exploded. The grenade detonated under pressure and it took the tin with it. Shrapnel and fire rained down, wood catching alight even as it shot up into the air. Glass and china and crockery shot out in every which direction and Bucky heard the screams and smelled the stench of burning flesh as wood hit home. A piece of glass whizzed past Bucky’s head, missing by inches and in the midst of it all, Bucky had to be impressed. 

Those that weren’t hit found themselves the targets of Steve’s bullets. Bucky saw the flashes of the Captain's gun and the top of his helmet sticking up over the fence. 

Bucky prayed for luck and bolted. Bullets rained down around him, and Bucky just ran. He didn’t look, didn’t try to guess what way they would shoot or which way to run; he just let his feet carry him forward and simply hoped for the best. 

It was fucked up, but it worked. 

Breathing deeply, he hurdled the crumbling wall and pressed his back against it, taking cover for what he knew would only be a moment’s respite. He guessed thirty seconds was the max. That was how long it would take a tank to turn its barrel. Of course, all it would take was a well-trained soldier to throw a grenade, and then Bucky was fucked; soldiers moved faster than tanks. 

But then the stones near his head stopped crumbling as someone shouted out over the noise in German. The German commander yelled at his soldiers to turn their attention left. 

Peter and Morita had opened fire again, and Bucky marked them for a few yards down from where they’d started. Good. 

Bucky took another moment to suck in a deep breath of air, coughing as it hit his lungs. Sometimes he could forget that he was sick. It came in the night and lingered in the morning, all raspy coughs and blood in the back of his throat, and then it would pass, and Bucky didn’t feel a thing. But as soon he as ran, as soon as he felt his heart race, it kicked in. It clawed at his lungs, tightening and searing and burning as the coughs threatened to break loose. 

Ignoring it, Bucky made the mad dash across the open gap in the wall, bullets nipping at his ankles and then dived in next to Steve. 

Steve caught him, pulling him down and covering his head as the bullets sprayed over their cover. 

Bucky shrugged him off. Now wasn’t the time for Steve to be playing protector. The Germans would be closing in on them at any moment. 

“Gotta move,” Bucky commanded with a jab of his elbow. It had the desired effect; Steve started to crawl forward, Bucky on his heels, his chest heaving in silent coughs. 

He could taste blood. 

They inched their way towards the bakery, elbows and knees catching on sharp and hard rocks. Behind them a grenade exploded, spraying up dirt and rubble that rained down on them. A fragment of stone hit Bucky heavily between the shoulders, pulling a grunt from his lips and slowing his crawl. 

Steve paused, and Bucky hit his leg to keep him moving. 

Peter and Morita provided their cover fire, drawing the enemies attention and Bucky didn’t allow himself the hope of making it to the bakery until his back was pressed against the building wall. Steve was closest to the corner, his gun held up against his chest and Bucky licked his lips as he waited. 

The enemy was still unorganised, but that wouldn’t last long. They were losing the element of surprise, German orders to divide and fan out floating across the field as they started to clue onto Bucky’s game. They knew that they were only being attacked from the two sides and once they got themselves in order, then the game was up. 

It meant Bucky had to get creative. 

Stepping up to Steve, Bucky inched around the other man, conscious of his cover. He ended up flush against the Captain, face to face and Steve looked at him with wide and battle crazed eyes. Bucky managed a smile as his hand ghosted down Steve’s side, stopping at his hip. And closing over his sidearm. 

Bucky pulled it free of the holster and transferred it to his left hand. He flicked the safety off and pulled back the hammer. “Brace,” he whispered against Steve’s neck as he wrapped his right arm around Steve’s shoulders. 

The other man was confused, Bucky knew that, but he did as he was told. He dropped his rifle, the gun hanging from its strap over his shoulder and looped his arm around Bucky’s waist. 

Bucky lent back, exposing himself as he dipped away from the cover of the building. It gave him the perfect angle, outward and lowered and while Bucky hadn’t planned for Steve’s involvement in the whole manoeuvre, he knew that he couldn’t have asked for more. Not with the other’s firm grip keeping him steady and Steve’s fingers shaking with the intent to pull him back in the moment bullets started to fly. 

He hadn’t fired a gun from his left hand since Siberia. Teeth catching his bottom lip, he squinted down the barrel and lined the shot, oversight for the limitations of his non-dominant arm. Bucky knew his own weaknesses; aim small, miss small for his right, aim low, miss low for his left. He aimed above where he wanted to hit, tightened his grip on Steve, ignored the way Steve tried to pull him closer and then pulled the trigger. 

Someone shouted, “There!” in German, and Bucky didn’t flinch as rifles turned to aim in his direction. 

Aim small, miss small. 

The handgun recoiled, the sound of the bullet seemed to shatter through the night air, so oddly designable above the noise of the semi-automatics that opened fire on Bucky’s position. 

But Steve was there. Steve had him, his arms pulling Bucky back from the corner as stone and concrete burst alive around them. A strong arm hooked around Bucky’s head, the grip odd and rough, but it protected Bucky’s face from the rain of deadly shrapnel.

They landed in a heap on the ground, half-hidden by the side of the bakery and half exposed. But the firing had stopped as a new sound rushed through the streets. No one pulled a trigger while fire and mud and flesh flew into the air. 

As much as Bucky hated the machine he’d been moulded into, this was one of the rare moments when he appreciated it. He wasn’t big-noting himself by thinking that no one else could have made that shot, left-handed or not. That was what Karpov had taught them, why he had yelled and hit and punished all of them until they knew. Until they understood just what was at stake. A tiny target, half-hidden by a rock and guarded by a pin. But Bucky had hit it and as that grenade had exploded, the C4 beneath had heated and caught alight. 

The blast was so much stronger than the shrapnel can. The earth shook beneath them, as if it had been rattled to the very core and the roar of fire drowned out all sounds. Everything but Steve shouting, “holy fuck!” in Bucky’s ear as his hands tightened around Bucky’s waist and head, pulling him down closer as the world moved under them like hell itself was rising. 

“Go!” Bucky countered, rolling to the side. They only had seconds, a minute if they were lucky before the German’s regained their footing and shot blindly at the source of their humiliation and desecration. Bucky didn’t want to be there when they got their bearings. Steve wasn’t moving, all wide-eyed and shocked at the rampant destruction, so Bucky grabbed at the straps of his uniform and started rolling him to his stomach. “Go, go, go, go. Go!” 

They both crawled again, elbows and knees and ankles and wrists digging their way forward through the shattered bricks and broken remains of strangers’ homes. Each movement hurt, tearing open skin and drawing blood but neither bothered to feel. Adrenaline kept them going through the pain, fear kept Bucky looking over his shoulder, making sure Steve was at his heels and desperation kept his eyes darting forward, towards the buildings ahead. 

Bullets flicked up stone and rock, snow and dirt. A hurricane of death. It whirled around them, blanketing Bucky’s sight and turning his ears deaf to the world around them. Something stung his leg, blistering and burning and wet and Bucky knew he had been hit. He pulled his wounded leg up and used it to push himself forward; the pain was there, hot as all hell, but it wasn’t unbearable. Shrapnel, not a bullet, a stray fragment desperate to bite into skin; he could deal.

Bucky sunk his teeth into his bottom lip and worked through the pain. The taste of blood kept him going, told him he was still alive. He didn’t, however, allow himself to wonder if he’d bitten through his own skin in desperation, or if the blood was from the constant throb of his lungs. 

The first decent shelter he came upon was the charred remains of a general store, corner foundations sticking up out of the sea of destruction around it. Bucky crawled past, his leg throbbing with each movement while using his hand to indicate Steve to the shelter. Bucky stopped behind an old cart next to it, breathing hard and struggling around the rumble of thick liquid in his lungs. 

Back pressed to the damn wood, Bucky licked his bloodied lips and took a moment to close his eyes. He needed to clear his head and work out what the fuck to do next, but the steady throb from his leg was distracting. As was the way his chest heaved and contracted, barely stifled coughs causing his body to convulse. 

“Bucky?” Bucky could barely hear Steve’s voice over the sound of the gunshots. He turned, rolling his head across the wood in a way that messed up his hair as it caught the in the grains of the planks. Steve was all eyes and open mouth, looking at Bucky in a way that seemed out of place as the world broke around them. He was scared, Bucky could see that, but not of the bullets or the enemy. Those blue eyes were locked onto Bucky’s face, flitting only to glance at the way Bucky heaved for breath and then they travelled down to Bucky’s leg. They expanded, and Bucky saw Steve try to move closer. Bullets answered, cutting up the ground between them. 

The fucking Germans already had them pinned. Exactly what Bucky hadn’t wanted. 

Grimacing slightly, Bucky followed that gaze and snarled at what he saw. It was shrapnel alright; a bloody large piece of blackened metal stuck into the side of his upper thigh. 

Bucky pulled it free with a snarl. It was an old door hinge, and it fell to the ground without a sound as more gunfire filled the night. 

“Bucky?” Steve was panicked; Bucky could hear it in his voice now, as if he had trained his ears to hear that emotionally painful sound over all else. 

Still, the Captain kept firing, keeping the Germans at bay under a wave of surprising fire. Whenever he let up, Bucky could hear the peppering answer from across the street, marking Peter and Morita’s contribution to the fight. 

Breathing deeply, Bucky worked on autopilot. He shook his head, aiming it at Steve as he saw the other man again try to bridge the space between them. Bucky knew what pocket to pull open, his hands shaking slightly as he yanked out a chunky strip of white cloth and a little white packet. He tore the plastic open with his teeth, shaking as he doused the open wound with white powder. Sulphanilamide. It was meant to help blood clotting and stop infection; all Bucky knew was that right now it fucking stung like a bitch. 

The luck they were living by wouldn’t last long, and already the Germans were starting to get back into order after all the chaos. 

Steve shifted at his side, lobbing a grenade into the forming ranks. It paused the rapid-fire of their guns for a few moments, buying Bucky the seconds he needed and gave Steve the chance to shift down and reload. 

“You need to go,” Steve was yelling as the cartridge clicked into his gun. Bucky ignored him and pressed a bandage against the wound, screwed his face up as he forced his knee to bend and then looped the long gauze ends around his leg. He tied it off with a grimace, knotting the ends straight across the wound in hopes of keeping the blood flow to a minimum. He had morphine in his left pocket, but he was loath to use it. The pain wasn’t that bad. It stung like a bitch, even burnt at times, but Bucky was sure he could work through it. It was more of an inconvenience than pain or a life-threatening wound.

He kept his hand pressed over the hole, his eyes watering slightly and sucked in a deep breath. It made him cough, his chest rattling wetly; he could feel Steve’s eyes burning into the side of his face. 

“Run, and I’ll cover,” Steve was saying, but Bucky was only half listening. He was too busy trying not to give in to the wetness that rattled in his lungs while eavesdropping on the shouted German orders.

“Not without you,” Bucky hissed over the rattle of a Gatling gun. 

Behind him, he could hear the German soldiers shouting to each other, yelling to get into formation and screaming for their artillery to open fire. There was the whirring of metal against metal, and then a pop, and Bucky found himself yelling before he even registered what was happening. 

“Incoming!” Bucky snarled. It didn’t help, didn’t give them enough time to move; nothing other than a blind attempt to jump to the side, or crawl in Bucky’s case as the mortar soared through the air between them. The shell landed, momentarily suspended in time just long enough for Bucky to see it and then the world turned upside down. Heat and fire and force and dirt, it all rained down around him and knocked him to the side. Bucky couldn’t even remember if he was falling from a standing position or if the explosion had picked him off the ground. 

The force of the explosion caught Bucky mid-air, propelling him forward like a ragdoll and time seemed to slow and wavier. He was falling for what felt like forever, sailing over the ground in an airborne sea of heat and the ground below looked so damn far away. 

He was just starting to think that it was over, that he was already dead and that the ground would never rush up to meet him when he hit. Face first, none of his training would have been able to enable him to brace himself against the freefall of the blast. Pushing himself to his hands and knees, Bucky used his shoulder to wipe the blood from his eyes before moving. He’d been blown a clear meter or two down the road and scrambled to get back behind another wall. He could hear footsteps; they were coming closer, confident that their shell had killed or at least stunned their targets. 

Bucky crawled forward, dropping his shoulder to lower his rifle. He caught it in his left hand, yanked it free and spun it in his grip, his right finger slipping into the trigger guard with well-practised ease. 

Stopping in a crouch, Bucky twisted around the wall, his rifle aimed to provide Steve with cover fire so they could regroup. 

But Steve wasn’t there. 

Bucky felt his heart skip a beat as his stomach lurched into his chest. The outcropping of rock Steve had been shielded behind was gone, blown to smithereens, dark lines of soot and ash all that remained, painted black across the snow. 

“Fuck!” Bucky hissed to himself, his eyes searching for any sign of life. Or worse, any red hunks of flesh. Nothing. 

Dragging himself painfully to his feet, Bucky grunted through the pain and started moving. Half of him wanted to stay, wanted to take the German’s on face to face and punish them for the death of his Captain, but the other part of him screamed that it was useless. It was that part that refused to believe that Steve was really dead; there should be signs, red-painted in with the black, and white remanent of shattered bone across the snow. 

Karpov had taught them that hope was a fool's game, that it was the sort of thing that got soldiers killed and lost wars. Standing there with his hand braced against the wall and all his weight on his left leg, Bucky realised that maybe Karpov hadn’t brainwashed him as much as he should have. 

Bucky still had hope and fucked if he was going to throw his life away for something that may or may not be real. 

Steve was fine, that was what Bucky told himself as he forced himself to move. He’d no doubt been blown in the opposite direction. They had orders. Rendezvous points. That’s where Steve would be going, and Bucky needed to be doing the same. 

Progress was slow, hard and each step caused agony, but Bucky moved nonetheless. One foot after the other; his left eating up enough ground to compensate for the shortcomings of his wounded right. Shrapnel and debris threatened to trip him, pulling him into a half crawl, half scramble as he picked his way across the bomb field towards better cover. He fired when he could, then doubled backed on his progress to throw the Germans off his position. 

With no more tricks up his sleeve, the best Bucky could hope for was an easily defensible position where he could take out as many of them as possible. He’d told Peter and Morita to steer clear of buildings and second stories, but as Karvop would have said, _do as I tell you and not as I do._

*****

“Bucky!”

He almost missed it; the single word hissed out so damn quietly that for a moment Bucky was sure he imagined it. He paused, his heart beating so fast that he was sure it was about to break free of the confines of his body and looked around. His name was repeated, and Bucky’s eyes narrowed on in the location 

A hedge, an old well, a collection of half-dead plants and an oil drum, all just within the trees of the surrounding forest. A head poked out, helmet askew, features sharp and drawn and eyes as big as a fish. 

Peter.

He shouldn’t go to them. Bucky knew that. It was foolish to group together, to stick to the one section of cover. It was as good as a death sentence. Yet that didn’t explain the way that Bucky’s legs seemed to propel him forward, his body hunched over in a crouch and his right leg dragging. 

He made the cover quickly, and no shouting from the German’s came. Safe, successful and Bucky tried to ease himself down behind the line of shrubs. 

“We thought you were dead,” Peter muttered. The other man reached out, grabbing Bucky’s elbow and helping guide Bucky to the ground. Morita was on his stomach to the side, his gun trailed on the German soldiers but his finger off the trigger. Bucky stretched his wounded leg out straight. The blood was seeping through the bandage. 

Bucky shook his head, trying to find the words through his struggle for breath. “No. But Steve. Steve… he…”

“He was just firing at them from across the street,” Morita finished simply, utterly unaware of Bucky’s hesitance to say that Steve was dead. 

It made Bucky’s heart skip a beat, his stomach lurching and bile rising in the back of his throat. Steve was alive. Just like that he felt pressure remove itself from his shoulders, as if he had been carrying the weight of the world on his back and now someone was there to help lessen the load. 

But Morita had said ‘was’ not ‘is’ and Bucky, for all his relief did pick up on that. 

“Where is he now?” Bucky asked as he glanced around, pulling his leg behind him to get into a better lookout position.

“Where do you think?” Peter asked. It wasn’t snappy or sarcastic; his eyes flashed worriedly off to the side, and Bucky followed his gaze. 

His heart sunk before he even found what he was looking for. That was why the German’s were so quiet. 

A soldier walked Steve out, gun at his back, pushing and prodding at Steve to keep him moving. Bucky’s eyes narrowed despite himself. Blood ran down the side of Steve’s face, thick and red even from a distance and the way he walked told of shell shock and pain. He shuffled, his steps uneven like someone long gone to the bottle and Bucky didn’t miss the way he held his head on the side. Loss of balance, blood; it could mean anything. He might have taken a head wound, or his eardrum could have ruptured from the blast, throwing his balance and equilibrium, or he could have been going into shock. The possibilities were an endless taunt in the back of Bucky’s mind. 

Beside him, Peter peered down the sight of his rifle and shuffled into a better position. Bucky could see he wouldn’t make the shot. 

“Hold your fire,” Bucky hissed. Peter and Morita looked at him, obviously confused by the order. It hardly made sense even to Bucky. Everything in him screamed to open fire, to shoot that man with the gun and get Steve out. But training and rationality stopped him. For better or worse, he looked past the fact that it was Steve stuck there and tried to assess the situation with a clear mind. They could shoot the German with the gun to Steve’s back, but the hostage situation had the attention of the whole troop. Shoot one and the rest would open fire, and Steve didn’t look like he’d be running any marathons right now. 

The Germans led Steve to the middle of the road, forcing him down on his knees with his hands clasped behind his head. That soldier stood behind him, gun lowered and aimed execution-style as they talked. He could hear them; fast, scared and hurried as they conversed among themselves. 

“They’re not going to shoot him,” Bucky translated as the other two men looked between him and the camp. “Not yet. He’s an officer. They’re confused ‘cause they’ve only found him.”

That was good. Bucky liked confusion. He could work with that. And why wouldn’t they be confused? An empty town completely off the radar, bullets flying and only one man found. An _American_ officer at that. 

Bucky nodded to himself as he saw what he had to do. Reaching forward, he grabbed at his companion’s shoulders, pulling them back and close so he could whisper. “I need you two to double back on the tracks. Lay a false trail. Peter, you know how to do that,” Bucky nodded at the other man, hoping that the youngster had picked up at least a little from all the times he had followed Bucky so blindly around the forest. “Break sticks, trample the snow. Just make sure they can’t see Rumlow’s tracks when they come looking for us. Ok?”

Peter nodded silently, and Morita let out a small grunt, obviously not understanding the point but not willing to go against an order either. 

That was good enough for Bucky. Whether they did what he said because their commanding officer was gone, because they trusted him or because they feared him didn’t matter. Just as long as they did it. Bucky reached up and loosened the clasp of his white fur pelt, shrugging it off his shoulders. 

“Keep this,” Bucky said, handing it to Peter. Peter’s eyebrows shot up, the look spreading across his face lost somewhere between puzzled and understanding. The choice of words seemed alarmingly final even to Bucky. He could have told the other man to hold it or to look after it for him, but _keep_? 

“Where are you going?”

The answer came easily, shot over his shoulder as he slowly inched himself towards the cover of the distant shadows. “To get your Captain.” 

*****

**Part IX Preview:**

Bucky kept his head down as he walked through the aftermath of his own destruction. One of the medics said something to him, and Bucky muttered back about orders, his German clipped but clear. He hurried on, trusting that the man would think he was just a rude bastard. 

Nothing could describe it. The harrowing feeling of seeing the consequences of his own actions nor the nerve-racking terror of walking with the enemy. It was like his senses were both on overdrive and yet numbed at the same time. Sound and movement seemed sharper, each and every step one of the German’s took magnified, speaking of violence and detection. Even so, nothing felt real. The world was strange, alien, the feeling in his legs gone and the colours of the field inverted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a _slight_ chance that I may pause posting this fic for a little bit. Just slight. But from here on out, it gets very into the sickness side and given what’s going on in the world at the moment, it’s a bit… ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I don’t know yet, and I may totally change my tune by next week and post anyway, but just in case I don’t, know that I will continue it once things settle down! Hope you’re all being safe and healthy out there. 
> 
> In the meantime, my new **EPIC** Stucky fic, [End of all Days](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23118046), is finally greeting the world, and while it’s heavy in its own way, there’s no debilitating illness etc, so it will continue to be posted. Make sure to check it out if you haven’t already! 
> 
> AMAZING chapter title song: [Blues Saraceno - The Devil You Know](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ZJwRslmhe0)
> 
> Finally, as always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated and will help keep me happy in this crazy isolated lockdown.


	9. Part IX - Come and make me a martyr, come and break my feeling with your violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> Did ya miss me?
> 
> I know not many people were reading this in the first place, and most have even forgotten about it now, but I figured it was finally time to finish it all off. 
> 
> More random notes at the end of the chapter.

**Part IX**

_Come and make me a martyr, come and break my feeling with your violence_

Dashing back through the scrub, Bucky kept his head low and concentrated on where he put his feet. He had to be silent. His wounded leg made it hard, but now wasn’t the time to be preoccupied with his own weaknesses. Just knowing that Steve was alive, but held at gunpoint had the pain in his leg fading, lost in the dizzying haze of trying to get a grip of the situation. 

_The only time you can’t walk is if you’re dead_ , was what Karpov used to say, _and the only time you can’t run is if you are missing both legs_. _Stop lagging behind, or I’ll shoot you myself._

Bucky took that advice to heart, repeating the words over and over in his head as he went. It worked to dull the pain even as his inner voice started to sound more and more like Karpov’s own.

He skirted around the bushes and shuffled up against the rear of a building; it was the general store that he and Steve had taken refuge behind previously. 

Each step he took had his heart beating faster and harder. The need to hurry screamed through his body – to run and cause a distraction before the German’s decided that Steve was worth nothing alive. 

Again, Karpov’s voice reverberated in the back of his head, telling him that the 181st SRD didn’t have the luxury of feelings. Feelings didn’t exist, and a real soldat’s needs were none. Even air wasn’t crucial for a Winter Soldier. They had to take their time, do what was smart and not what their hearts told them. 

They had no hearts. 

But Bucky did. His heart was in the middle of the road, and his feelings guided his steps. He tried to tell himself that it made him stronger than Karpov’s coldness ever could. 

To feel nothing was to be an empty shell, to feel something was to be a shell about to explode. 

Creeping into the building, Bucky shuffled through the rubble to the front window. He kept low, the strain on his leg a constant grounding point in his mind. 

He could see the whole street from here. See Steve on his knees and see the Germans quickly conversing. A man in a lieutenant uniform commanded soldiers this way and that, fanning out a more thorough search party now that the bullets had stopped flying. They were obviously clued on enough to know that it wasn’t just Steve who’d attacked them. 

Bucky watched as a soldier headed his way, head low and gun held high to the shoulder. The man walked with crab-stepped assurance as he swept through the debris and made his way to the general store door. 

Bucky held his breath and asked himself what Karpov would do. Karpov, Bucky reminded himself, wouldn’t be in this position. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to go back into hostile territory in the name of one man. Karpov would have done the smart thing; the humane thing. A bullet to Steve’s head would have saved them all. 

Mentally taking Steve out of the equation did help. It narrowed Bucky’s world down to him, the German and the need for survival. 

After that, everything was easy.

He let the man approach, let the man come into the store, and for a single heartbeat, Bucky let the soldier walk straight past him before he stood. 

Bucky didn’t have time to pull his knife free. Keeping his balance on his left leg, Bucky grabbed the man and yanked him forward quickly while closing his hand over the soldier’s firearm. 

The German registered surprise, his light eyes flying open and Bucky saw terror and desperation. He moved quickly, twisting the gun in the man’s hand, keeping his fingers away from the trigger while Bucky’s other hand found the catch at the side. He pressed it, and the magazine shot out the bottom. Bucky grabbed it in his fist. He yanked down on the man’s arms and bared his teeth as he drove the open end of the clip straight into the man’s right eye. Bucky dropped the man’s hands and used his left to hammer the magazine home, feeling the metal slide along the leather of his gloves as gooey blood splashed out to turn the black red. 

_Don’t be afraid to get eye juice under your nails, Soldat!_

The soldier opened his mouth in pain, but Bucky stifled the scream with his palm. He locked his other hand around the back of the man’s head and then twisted roughly, snapping the neck. A humane end to the suffering, he told himself. Karpov would have called it a means to an end. Suppress the target; avoid detection. Finish the mission. 

Calmly, Bucky lowered the body to the ground; the magazine stuck in the enemy’s skull as Bucky pulled the body back further into the shadows. It made his leg burn, the skin around his wound twisting and that knot in the bandage cutting in, but Bucky ignored it like the good Winter Soldier he was. 

Crouching down, he yanked at the buttons of the man’s uniform, pushing and pulling at the corpse with bland disregard until the long brown trench coat came free. With a flick, Bucky had it over his shoulders, his arms shrugging into the sleeves before quickly fastening it closed at the front. He took the helmet next, pausing only long enough to knot his hair up to hide his dark, unruly curls under the metal. No German military man had hair like Bucky. 

Dressed as the enemy, Bucky inched his way to his feet, his wounded leg out straight, unable to take his weight. He hefted the German rifle up over his shoulder. It was useless without its ammo, but its presence would help him blend in and buy him seconds of distraction. 

Any ordinary soldier would be court-marshalled for this — provided they made it out alive — but Bucky neither cared nor considered himself normal. Espionage, infiltration and deception were all part of his conditioning. 

Then again, he was dead already; if he made it out of this and the sickness didn’t take him, then a court-marshalling would be a fitting end. 

With his disguise in place, Bucky swallowed his own fear and put his plan into action. 

He walked right out into the open, into the middle of the rallying German’s. 

It was a harrowing experience. Bucky could feel his heart pounding faster and faster, his blood racing to the point he could feel his pulse in the open wound of his leg. Chest tight and breathing strangled, Bucky kept his hands balled into fists at his sides and walked past the sounds of the dying. 

And that was everywhere. _They_ were everywhere. 

Throughout this mission, Bucky had killed more than he wanted to admit to himself. He had taken them out, silent and deadly in the heat of the moment. Some went fast, some went slow; bloodied and screaming or quick, silent yet horrific like the man who had once worn Bucky’s clothes. But they all died, and Bucky remembered each and every one of them. 

But this was different. Bucky could count the times he had thrown a grenade into a group of people on one hand. Once. And that had been today, setting off a bomb of shrapnel that had carved its way randomly through the skin of the unlucky men. 

It obliterated Bucky’s tally; the list he would have against him when his time came, and his soul was weighed and judged. How many had died here? There was no way to tell, but those that lay on the ground, rolling in pain and screaming as medics pumped them full of morphine and tried to staunch bleeding, stood in numbers well above ten. Far closer to twenty. How many of them would make it through and how many would die? How many would have their names added to Bucky’s list of condemnation?

To his left a medic swore and called for help, his hands trying to push a man to the ground even as the wounded soldier withered in pain. His leg was torn to pieces, still there, but not at all whole. Skin hung in shreds, knotting with blood-soaked tatters of his uniform and Bucky knew he had done that. Bucky wondered if he would ever walk on it again. Not likely; in this cold and this far away from help, they would have to amputate, and then, if he survived, he would be relying on a stick for the rest of his life. 

For that one, Bucky chose to see it as Karma. Dark retribution for what had been done to Pietro.

Bucky kept his head down as he walked through the aftermath of his own destruction. One of the medics said something to him, and Bucky muttered back about orders, his German clipped but clear. He hurried on, trusting that the man would think he was just a rude bastard. 

Nothing could describe it; the harrowing feeling of seeing the consequences of his own actions. The same went for the nerve-racking terror of walking with the enemy. It was like Bucky’s senses were both on overdrive and yet numbed at the same time. Sound and movement seemed sharper, each and every step one of the German’s took magnified, speaking of violence and detection. Even so, nothing felt real. The world was strange, alien, the feeling in his legs gone and the colours of the field inverted. 

He couldn’t tell if the hand that rose to press in at this temple moved due to the overwhelming intensity of the moment or if it robotically acted in self-preservation, shielding his face from an officer that he walked right past. Close enough that their shoulders almost touched. All Bucky knew at that moment was that the rumours about him were real and right. They called him a killer, an assassin and a ghost and as Bucky forced his right leg to take his weight as the officer struck past him, he finally understood why. 

Bucky felt himself freeze up at the thought. It started in his heart, the racing beat just stopping right then and there as if he had died on the spot. But he still breathed, he still struggled against the coughs that boiled up in the pit of his plagued lungs. His legs followed; wound or not, they just stopped cooperating as a dying scream filled the road. A man lost to war, a letter home saying he was a hero. A hero of what, of what battle? An unknown force playing dirty with explosives so far away from the front lines that there was nothing heroic about it. But the man had still died, and his family would never know the lie.

Frozen in place, Bucky didn’t know what to do. Karpov was yelling in his head, raging and screaming and clawing; trying to break his mind to the point where he didn’t consider these things. 

Maybe if Bucky could just take a moment to look and feel and process, then all of this would make sense. Maybe if Bucky could be someone else for even just a minute, it would become apparent. 

Maybe, maybe, _maybe_. 

A different scream cut through his thoughts, and it wasn’t until Bucky blinked that he realised the cry came with something else. Something loud and deafening, short and quick with an echo that lasted a lifetime. A bullet and the wail of the dying. 

Just like that, Bucky remembered. Everything. What he was doing, why he was staring at a German flag on his shoulder and not his own and why he had caused so much pain and destruction. 

Captain Rogers, now in command of the Howling Commandos; the group of batshit crazy infantry who had marched halfway across the USSR, achieved Project Insight and then gotten themselves stuck. Steven Rogers, who Bucky felt more for than he probably should and who was able to make Bucky feel like a real person, not just an instrument strummed in the heat of war. 

Steve, who he had lost in the middle of the fight and who Bucky had seen marched across the torn-apart battlefield at the enemy’s gunpoint. 

A gunshot, a scream and Bucky’s eyes flashed up and across the road, fearing the worst.

His gaze locked with Steve’s, and he saw the way the Captain’s eyes expanded slightly. Steve had seen him. To his right, a soldier died from the kindness of a friend’s bullet, his body so ruined by shrapnel and burns that nothing else would save him. And Bucky didn’t care, didn’t spare him a look because Steve was _there_ , alive and looking right back at him with a mixture of shock, bewilderment and loving devotion in his eyes. 

And just like that, the whole world made sense again. Maybe Karpov had won, or maybe Bucky found the scraps in his own mind that the Winter Soldier program hadn’t destroyed. Something inside of Bucky that even he didn’t know existed. All he knew was that right now everything was black and white, the lines were clear and moral, and unjust had never been so well defined in his mind. 

White, moral and Steve had to live. Black and unjust and the German’s had to die for that to happen. Bucky understood it, heard it in his own voice in his head, and he believed in it. 

Offering Steve a half-smirk and wink, Bucky removed one of the grenades from the shoulder holster and kept it shielded in his hand. He walked right past the captured Captain and made his way towards his target. 

With a flick of his thumb, he knocked the pin of the grenade free of its chamber. 

_One_. 

The pin fell to the ground, sinking into the slush under the weight of his steps. Bucky paused, turning his head back towards Steve as he tightened his grip on the grenade. He knew Steve had seen the pin from the look in his eyes. 

_Two_. 

Bucky held the bomb in his shaking hand and prayed for strength as he took another step forward. Pain shot through his leg, stiffening the limb and causing his foot to drag, but Bucky kept moving. 

_Three_.

Most grenades took three to five seconds to explode. Some took up to eight. 

_Four_.

Steve was trying not to panic; Bucky could see that out of the corner of his eye. The other man was looking at him, all wide-eyed and trembling lips, terrified of what Bucky was doing and terrified of alerting the enemy all at the same time. Bucky had to give him credit for not calling out to him. 

_Five_.

Bucky closed his eyes and prayed for luck. 

_Six_.

“Run!” He shouted, his arm drawing back to fling the grenade at his target. The shell exploded on impact, and the world around him seemed to follow suit. 

They said that standard hand grenades were useless against tanks and for the most part, that was true. The only way they could affect the metal beasts was if they exploded directly over the engine cap, or hit the ventilation panels, smoking out those inside. To do that took skill, timing and aim that wasn’t often found during warfare, especially not in ordinary soldiers losing their heads in the heat of battle. 

Thankfully Bucky didn’t fit into either of those categories, and if there was one thing that Karpov had taught him, it was to never underestimate what he was capable of. 

The grenade hit dead on target and exploded across the engine cap. The built-up pressure had the cap flying into the air, just another warped piece of shrapnel as the tank threatened to rip itself apart. Fire and smoke, screaming and heat; they all blended as the grenade set off a chain reaction, ripping through the tank and igniting the engine fuel. 

The force of the blow knocked Bucky backwards, and for the second time that day, he was airborne. Dirt and snow rained over his head, clouding his vision even as the explosion rang in his ears. He didn’t know what part of him had thought he was a safe distance away yet as Bucky felt his back, his shoulders, his head and then legs smash against the ground, he knew that his training had failed him. Nothing could have anticipated the force of the explosion. 

He lay there, spread-eagled and dazed, the sound ringing in his ears. 

People screamed. Over it, all Bucky heard the groaning of metal and sound of feet running. Shouts in German, the patter of gunfire and the crash as bullet-severed tree branches fell. The world around him was plunged into chaos. Purgatory rising up to take them all with Bucky’s name at the top of the list. 

Something hot and heavy crashed down next to Bucky, and despite himself, Bucky screamed out loud. It landed on his left arm, the pain instantly flaring up at the touch of the heated metal as it scorched through his layers of clothing. Bucky snarled out loud as leather and fabric and skin seemed to just melt, his shocked body trying to pull away. Everything in him told him to wiggle free, to roll and put out the feeling of hellfire that licked at his skin, but for the first time since dispatch, Bucky couldn’t find it in himself to move. 

Karpov’s memory shouted bloody murder in the back of his mind as Bucky gave himself over to the suction of the mud. 

There was a pain in his throat that he couldn’t quite place. An odd sense of warmth there that stood out against the tightness of his skin. His lungs hurt, but that was nothing new. Bucky was sure he was trying to cough as he lay there. 

Hands were grabbing at him, voices filling the air and Bucky knew he was done for. Lost in a sea of frantic German soldiers. Maybe they were pulling him to safety, still thinking he was one of them and not registering that he had thrown the bomb. More likely, they were hauling him to his feet to shoot him execution-style—bloody retribution for all the death he had bestowed upon them. 

“Bucky!” How did they know his name? Why did the voice in his ear sound so familiar?

“Bucky?”

Steve.

It was Steve grabbing at him, and clarity started to return as the Captain half dragged him across the mud. 

Steve was the dumbest man Bucky had ever met. He realised that now. This whole thing had been to get Steve out, but there the punk was trying to play the hero once again. 

That alone was what had Bucky stumbling awkwardly to his feet and doing his best to run. Steve had an arm around his waist, pulling him more than guiding him and Bucky did his best to keep up. 

Bullets ripped through the air, but for once, they weren’t aimed at them. The Germans were in chaos as Peter and Morita pepped them with suppressing fire. With their tank roaring up in flames, it pushed the men back and cleared a path for Steve and Bucky, and before Bucky knew it, they were stumbling through the debris of broken buildings. 

Steve pressed him back against the wall, and it was all Bucky could do to hold on. The other man was so close, keeping him upright and pushing in against Bucky’s want to cough. 

He panted against Steve’s hand until he thought he was going to blow the noise out of his ears. Steve’s other hand was across Bucky’s throat, strangling and cutting off his flow of air. 

When Steve finally moved back once the sound of footsteps had faded, that hand was bloody, from fingertips to wrists and that was the moment Bucky finally realised that something was wrong. 

“You’re gonna be ok,” Steve whispered. Bucky found the words alien. Of course, he was going to be fine; what was Steve talking about? And yet his eyes kept flicking to Steve’s blood-stained hand, watching the way Steve tore angrily at a section of his shirt, pulling strips of fabric free that moved out of Bucky’s vision as they were pressed in against his neck. 

Pain. Bucky registered that but little else. What had happened, why was there blood? He didn’t understand; couldn’t understand. All he knew was that he felt like he was burning from the inside out; it started in his lungs and spread like wildfire through the rest of his body. 

They were moving again, and Bucky wondered if he’d blinked and missed the start of their stumble. Over rock and through shattered glass, and Steve was a warm, guiding presence at his side. They fled through the scrub, Steve shouldering most of Bucky’s weight and leading the way. Steve was talking, Bucky knew that much, but the ringing in his ears muffled and blurred the words. He struggled with his footing, slipping and turning his ankle on rocks and roots; Steve held him upright, tightening his grip to keep him close and stop him from falling. 

The next thing Bucky registered other than the pain was the sound of familiar voices. 

“What the fuck was that explosion?” Morita asked at the exact same time as Peter growled out; “What the fuck happened to him?”

“Tank,” Steve said, pressing a hand back against Bucky’s neck. The pressure hurt and Bucky snarled out loud this time. Steve didn’t seem to care, his hands shaking as he kept pressing. “Too much fucking blood,” Steve was muttering under his breath. 

Reaching a shaking hand upwards, Bucky closed it around Steve’s arm, pulling and tugging slightly to get the other man’s attention. “I’m ‘a’ight,” Bucky wheezed out. 

“He got caught in the blast?”

“ _He_ blew up the tank.”

“Oh,” Peter said, and Bucky imagined his eyebrows would have shot up under his helmet. “Well, that’s different then.”

Bucky actually found it in himself to chuckle before darkness took him. 

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now that the world has adjusted (that doesn’t necessarily mean well) to the COVID-19 situation, posting about Bucky coughing his lungs up with TB and getting sick seems a little more acceptable. Also, I finally finished the last chapter. That only took me… years. XD
> 
> I’d love to say that I’ve been powering through other fics and projects, but that’s not really the case. To be perfectly honest, I’ve been struggling a lot lately. I’m lucky in that I live in a place where we haven’t had any new cases in over a month, and the 10-odd cases we do have are all in isolation. We’re not in lockdown or wearing masks or anything like that. But our state is closed, and the economy is fucked, and the unemployment rate in my city has more than tripled. My career industry has been desecrated, and while I have strong admin skills, so do hundreds of thousands of others currently looking for work. So I’m still without a job and without a home and, just bleh. I’m lucky that I have a BFF with a great family who has been supportive (my family isn’t an option). 
> 
> So it’s depressing as all fuck, tbh, and I’d love to say that I’ve used all this time to pump out fics like crazy, but. Nope. I spend most of my time job hunting, trying not to be depressed when rejection emails come through (some even at 10pm on a Saturday night, or 9am Sunday morning, so it’s just relentless and constant) and then staring at the wall, internally screaming. Then, of course, I get angry/anxious over the fact that I’m too angry/anxious to do anything productive and that I’m squandering this time, and then everything just painfully repeats itself. 
> 
> Other times, I play Among Us and Werewolf and Town of Salem and Cluedo against myself because no one I know plays, and I’m back on a shitty timezone with no one around to chat to. Lol. Ah, life. 
> 
> Oh, and it’s hot! We’re already getting days up in the ’30s, and it’s only fucking spring, and the spiders are already out and making life hell and Ijustreallyhateeverythingrightnowomgfuck2020!
> 
> MOVING ON! I am still **hoping to roll out a new fic soon**. All going according to plan, it should be ready to go by the time posting of this one wraps up. And it will be a lot lighter and, dare I say, more romantic than this dark wallow-fest. So stay tuned to this space! 
> 
> Oh, and, actually! One thing that I’m really excited about. I put a commission through with my fav artist (because we broke creators gotta help support each other, right?) and it’s come through. The pitch was the ‘ _post-apocalypse, messed up, fucked up, totally over it and ready to smash_ ’ version of the cute anime ‘me’ that I have on my blog. It’s turned out rad as hell, and I love it. You can see it on my [Tumblr](https://minka-g.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Anyway, how have you all been holding up? I hope life is going better/more stably for you all.


	10. Part X - I won't give up on us; I'll be waiting here 'til the stars fall down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who came out of the woodworks in support of the last chapter. That was amazing, and your words of encouragement (especially in relation to my current state of mind) were insanely appreciated. 
> 
> Anyway, without further ado. Let’s start rolling on into what I consider the _Lord of the Flies_ part of the story.

**Part X**

_I won't give up on us; I'll be waiting here 'til the stars fall down_

*****

Steve hadn’t expected them to make it to the rendezvous point. 

Bucky was completely unresponsive, even after they’d paused longer than they dared to wrap the deep cut along the side of his neck. There was nothing that they could do for his left arm, at least not at the time, and so Steve had done his best to cover the burns before wrapping it as best as he could. Thankfully the burns didn’t look too bad; bad enough, but treatable even if they would leave a scar along his left shoulder and side. 

Peter had helped him secure Bucky’s wolf pelt around his shoulders, ensuring that no part of his wounds were open to the elements, and then they’d worked together to clot the shrapnel wound in Bucky’s leg. Again Steve thanked his lucky stars; it was a nasty puncture and Bucky had put the injury through a lot, but the bolt had skimmed through more flesh than deep tissue and was nothing that a few stitches wouldn’t fix. 

The most alarming thing was Bucky’s stillness. Throughout the entire process, Bucky hadn’t stirred. Not even once. It had Steve paranoid, and his hands shook more than he cared to admit. 

After that, the real trudge had begun, and Steve felt the weight of his guilt sinking him further into the snow with each step. 

A good Captain would have handled the situation a lot differently. He wouldn’t have let one of his own — because Bucky was one of them, no matter how much the Russian liked to think he wasn’t — get so severely wounded. A good Captain wouldn’t have needed someone to rescue him, or, better yet, would have laid down orders to run should such a situation occur.

On top of that, a good Captain would have ordered Peter and Morita on. Would have had them save themselves and not be burdened with Steve’s shortcomings and Bucky’s injuries. But Steve couldn’t carry Bucky on his own, and they needed someone to guard their flank and cover their tracks. 

Neither Peter nor Morita had offered to leave, and Steve… well, a good Captain wouldn’t have let them stay.

The going was slow and treacherous, each slip in the snow jostling Bucky in a way that had the Spetsnaz grunting despite his unconsciousness. Steve shouldered most of his weight, with Morita’s arm hooked around Bucky’s waist. Peter covered their tracks and did his best to lay false trails. 

Through some miracle, the Germans didn’t follow them, or if they did, Peter had done a good enough job at hiding their progress. Steve still expected bullets to come with each step. 

When they finally reached the rendezvous point, no one was there. 

Steve was sure none of them had expected to find the rest of the Howling Commandos. They were hours past the rendezvous time, with the dawn light creeping over the frozen forest. With it came the cold. It was always worse just before the sun came up, and Bucky was a shivering body of ice between them. 

Exhausted and with nowhere else to go, they’d silently sought out shelter. A fire would have been welcome, but they all knew it could be a death sentence. Light and smoke travelled in the early fog, and it would give their position away for miles. 

There was still so little Steve could do for Bucky. He didn’t want to expose the wounds to the cold, so once they’d built a small lean-to of broken branches and boulders, Steve had simply held Bucky close and tried to warm him up.

With just the three of them alert, sleep was a far-off dream. They took turns in patrolling a small area around them, none of them game enough to stray too far. 

By the time the sun came up, and the white of the snow started to blind them, they were all at breaking point, which was how Morita had almost shot Falsworth. 

The reunion had come as a shock. Somewhere in his mind, Steve had already resigned them to their fates of dying out in the snow. Or, at least, he’d reserved that for him and Bucky, so Falsworth was like a vision pushing past the brink of death. 

“We’ve found something,” Falsworth said, his eyes sliding over Bucky. “Just in time, it would seem.” His lips pressed grimly together as he turned on his heels to lead the way, whistling loudly. Dernier stalked out of the forest, his eyes darting towards the horizon, ever watchful. 

Even with the five of them, it still took the better part of the day to make it back to the rest of the group. Steve didn’t ask for help, but the other’s cycled through, each taking turns shouldering the shivering weight the Spetsnaz had become. 

Bucky had grown more alert during the trudge, though he still wasn’t able to walk on his own, much to the exasperation of his foolish pride. Steve had shushed him and helped him on, not game enough to let go even for a second. 

The farmstead was like a beacon in the gloom of twilight—a gingerbread house in the world of fairy tales that promised safety and respite. 

Steve eyed it with suspicion even as Falsworth filled him in. 

“We found it by accident,” the Brit supplied. “It hasn’t been occupied in a while, and the road is completely overgrown. But it’s dry and sturdy; both the house and the surrounding barns. There were a few supplies. Rumlow is taking stock of it all now.” 

Dernier had gone on ahead earlier, and as Steve approached, he saw the others start to appear, curious heads poking out of doors and up from hidden guard posts. 

“Is there somewhere we can…” Steve couldn’t quite bring himself to finish the sentence. Operate on Bucky were words that should never have to be said out loud. 

Falsworth grinned — an expression that Steve found alarmingly out of context — and steered them towards what looked like the main farmhouse. 

“There’s a lot of room. Most of the men have bunked down in the hay in the barn. It’s warm, at least. And it leaves the main house. I kicked Rollins out, especially for you,” the Brit’s smile grew wider at that. “It has a bed and solid window shutters.” 

Warmth. Shelter from the elements. A bed. Somewhere safe to put Bucky. 

Steve bowed his head and let out a sigh. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank us, Cap,” Falsworth assured. 

Even if he’d been about to say anything else, it would have been cut off by a shrill wail and a streak of red as Wanda spotted Bucky. She was fast — or maybe Steve was just tired and used to travelling slow — and she was in front of them and trying to grab at Bucky’s face before Steve could stop her. 

“Peter,” Steve murmured. The young soldier knew what to do. He carefully pulled Wanda back, hugging her close and muttering words of reassurance even as she shook and muttered words none of them could understand. 

The sound of Russian seemed to bring Bucky’s wavering, unfocused attention, and the soldier in Steve’s arms muttered something that seemed to pacify Wanda more than Peter’s words ever could.

Pulling Bucky up the few stairs of the porch, Steve kicked the door in gently and guided them both into the gloom. 

“Fuckin’ dark,” Bucky muttered at his side, stealing the words out of Steve’s mouth. Steve just smiled and gave them time to let their eyes adjust. Bucky didn’t want to wait, but Steve didn’t drop his hold. 

The cabin was a far cry from a real home, but right now, it was the most beautiful sight Steve had seen in a long time. 

There was a small wooden desk in the corner with a rickety chair that Steve wouldn’t trust with his weight. A large window opened up the back wall, the heavy wood shutters drawn closed against the cold. Another chair sat under that, a day bed of sorts and Steve wondered what someone living all the way out here used that for. In the centre of the room was the bed. A real, wooden, off the floor, mattress and furs bed and Steve felt a smile spread across his lips. 

It was what Bucky needed. Somewhere warm and comfortable and safe. Somewhere Steve could make sure he rested and took it easy. 

As if in response, Bucky let out a cough, loud and body rattling. Steve dropped the packs to the floor, crossed the room and circled his arms around the other man. To his surprise, Bucky didn’t try to move away; instead, he just rested his head in the crook of Steve’s shoulder and held on. 

He took time to get Bucky settled, finding kerosene lamps and striking them alight with flint and stone. With the room illuminated, Steve went about moving the packs into the corner, pulling out his radio and setting it on the table. Then he cornered Bucky and backed him up towards the bed, muttering about rest and furs and sleep while Steve found food. 

Surprisingly, Bucky didn’t complain. He simply sank into the bed and allowed Steve to haul the furs up over his shoulders. That scared Steve more than anything. Bucky always complained, always fought. Then again, maybe the idea of a proper bed was just too good to resist. Steve sure as hell knew that he was looking forward to sinking down next to Bucky when time allowed for it.

Bucky was asleep before Steve was done fussing. There were wounds to clean and stitches to apply, but they could wait for another hour or two. It would do Bucky good to have some real rest before Steve had to start peeling blood-clotted bandages and pushing needles through skin. 

With _The_ Winter Soldier safely tucked away, Steve shrugged back into his jacket and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. The cabin had a small terrace where the stairs met the door, and from there he surveyed the men squaring away the last of their stuff into the depths of the largest shed. As Falsworth had said, it was sturdily built, its foundations formed of stone and the roof of hardwood. It would keep them warm and sheltered from the icy winter winds.

Steve moved down the stairs, and Peter met him at the bottom. 

“Rumlow set up the watch. He’s on first duty. Morita and I will keep an eye on Wanda and Pietro and… watch the door,” Peter added. Steve nodded his thanks, his fingers pressing in at the bridge of his nose. 

“How is he?” Peter finally asked, his tongue wetting his wind-chapped lips. 

“Asleep,” Steve told him. He didn’t know when or how it had happened, but Peter had become his one loyal confidant. Maybe it was when Peter was there at the church, witnessing Bucky doing all the things that neither of them could. Peter had done as Bucky had told him that night; he kept everyone inside, told no one — not even Morita — and had carried that dark burden without another word. Or maybe it was the day Bucky had collapsed. Peter had been there right next to Steve, eyes just as wide as he had helped pull the other man out of the snow. They had carried Bucky that day, and for most of the night until they found somewhere to camp. Peter hadn’t complained; hadn’t so much as grumbled under the dead weight between them. 

Maybe it was just because everything with Peter was clear cut and straight. Steve knew where he stood, knew where Bucky stood and that Peter would be there, defending them when needed and wordlessly helping when Steve thought he was about to go mad. 

They walked in companionable silence, circling around the cabin and the outhouse, coming in behind the large shed; walking the perimeter. It was open and large, but easily defendable—the perfect place to wait out the worst of winter. 

Steve was through with walking, done with marching and dragging feet through snow. He was sick of watching Bucky struggle, tired of holding the others together and setting a pace that was slow enough and yet still saw them covering distance each day. Getting to the north coast had been a good plan, but now it wasn’t working. When he had found Bucky, washing blood from his hands in an icy stream, he had simply waited, day in and day out, for a place like this to come along, the idea of holing up already firmly lodged in his mind. 

The farmstead had no running water, but a well stood between the cabin and the outhouse, a wooden cover keeping the water from contamination. It was frozen shut, but with a hammer and some brute force, Steve knew they could get it open. He assumed that whoever had lived here knew to dig deep enough to keep the water from freezing completely. 

There was even a generator, old and rusted. Steve allowed himself to feel hope, that was until Peter pulled at the cord, fiddled with some knocks and gaskets and then shook his head in dismay. 

“It’s out of oil. I’ll see if I can find some in the storehouse.” 

Steve busied himself with getting everyone else adequately settled. 

Wanda and Pietro had been set up in a cleaned-out horse stall, keeping them separate from the rest of the men and giving them space. Steve could feel the Russian girls eyes on him and took the time to go and sit with their two strays. He talked them through what had happened, censoring the violence and blood and the ringing of bullets that Steve was sure he could still hear. He spoke slowly and clearly, gesturing when possible to help cross the language barrier. 

“Bucky?” Wanda asked, and Steve had the sneaking suspicion that her English had gotten a lot better. 

“Hurt,” Steve said, but he nodded and offered her a hopeful smile. “But he will be alright. Bucky is strong. He is sleeping now.” 

Wanda nodded and gathered her own blankets, settling in next to Pietro. All the while her eyes watched Steve, and when she spoke again, brokenly saying that she’d see Bucky in the sun time, Steve nodded and tucked the blankets in around the two of them. 

Rumlow built a fire in the middle of the stone shed, large and surrounded by rocks, and when the flames roared up, it warmed the entire building. Even the stones hissed with the heat. They divided up their rations, studied maps and made plans for the following day. They would fan out in raiding parties, see what lay around them. As much as they were grateful for the buildings that weren’t on any of their maps, the idea of someone surviving this far out of the way seemed strange to the Allied forces. There had to be a town close by, though how close wasn’t something any of them could guess at. Going by their coordinates, they were meant to be in a sprawling forest with no signs of life.

But nothing could be done at night, and they all needed rest. They drew straws for the rest of the night watch, Peter taking the one out of Steve’s hand with a caring smile and a gentle shake of his head and went about their usual routine of stepping out the patrol lines. 

With nothing left to do and Peter and Falsworth dividing up the hours of Steve’s pulled watch, Steve nodded his thanks at the two soldiers and made his way back to the cabin. He crept inside, hoping that Bucky was still asleep and not wanting to disturb him. 

As he had hoped, Bucky was curled up under the furs, his legs tucked up near his stomach and his head pillowed on his right arm. Eyes closed and muscles relaxed, his mouth was open slightly, and the almost inaudible sounds of him breathing filled the room. 

Steve couldn’t help but smile. 

Bucky looked so peaceful when he slept. Steve had noticed that before; it was such a stark contrast between the hard mask he wore to the one that settled over his features in sleep. It reminded Steve that he had never asked how old Bucky was. Age didn’t seem to matter in war, not unless it was the newbie, young and pimple-faced and smelling of careless youth. Bucky had never shown any of those signs. Most times Steve was sure that he was even older than he was — it was all in the training and the way Bucky carried himself — but when Steve had first seen Bucky sleep he knew that wasn’t true. Bucky could have been a kid for all Steve knew. 

Rolling the wick of the lamp down, Steve toed off his boots and slipped in under the covers, pulling them tight behind him. Bucky shifted but didn’t wake, not even when Steve moved closer, spread the side of his jacket wide and pulled Bucky in underneath. There was a murmur as Bucky shifted again, this time closer to Steve’s warmth, causing Steve to smile again. 

They were going to be alright. 

*****

In the morning, the coughs came, deep and rattling and coloured with red, and Steve felt his hopes shatter like glass.

With Bucky awake and already in pain, Steve had heated water and collected whatever scraps of bandages and material he could find before turning his attention to Bucky’s wounds. 

For the first time since Steve had known him, Bucky had cried from the pain and, once done, had clung to Steve’s hand like he was sinking and Steve was the only thing keeping him alive. 

*****

“He needs medical attention,” Steve admitted, rubbing his hand through the hair of his chin. Warmth had worked, as had the respite from walking and the cold, but still, three weeks into their new cabin life and Bucky wasn’t getting much better. Steve refused to admit that he was deteriorating, but he sure as hell wasn’t on the mend either. 

It was wearing away at Steve in ways that even he couldn’t understand. 

Everything had seemed like a fairy-tale when they first arrived. A haven in the bleakness of their struggles. The days that had followed saw them finding no signs of human life, no roads or villages or scatterings of bullet casings. It was like a paradise tucked away from the harshness of reality, just for them. They even found game out in the woods, rabbits and deer and there hadn’t been a night since when they hadn’t indulged in a meaty stew. 

It did wonders for the rest of them, restoring their weary bodies and lifting their weakened spirits. It brought colour to their faces even as they turned pale in the consuming cold. 

Yet for Bucky, it did little, even as time flicked by and one, two, then three weeks passed. His wounds healed, his burns turning to pale scars across his left side, but still, his lungs shook with the cough of the dying.

Steve tried to tell himself that he hadn’t been stupid enough to think that a warm bed and a few nights sleep would chase off the deadly illness in his lover, but nothing else could really explain the way his heart felt like it was sinking every time Bucky coughed. They were getting worse too. Deep and rattling, breath-stealing in ways that left even Steve struggling to breathe as he rubbed Bucky’s back and mopped his brow. 

None of that, however, changed the fact that Bucky was sick. He was suffering and dying, and other than water and furs, there was nothing that Steve could do. 

It was why he brought it up with Rumlow. Steve didn’t know why he chose to talk to his second in command. Relations had been stretched thin between them since Bucky had told Steve about Wanda. Yet Rumlow had still stood up for Bucky when Rollins and Dum Dum were ready to leave him for the wolves. Maybe it was his way of trying to reconnect with the man who had once stood at his side, right next to Phillips, or perhaps it was because Steve needed someone biased. If he said this to Peter then they would be off, hiking through the snow on a hell-bent mission to find a doctor; Rumlow would at least tell it to him straight. 

Rumlow did just that. He scoffed, and Steve could have hit him, right there and then. “Yeah,” Rumlow agreed though Steve could hear the sarcasm. “It’s not like we are stuck behind enemy lines with no backup, but let’s get medical attention.”

Steve sighed. He hated Rumlow, hated the way that he just casually brushed off Steve’s concerns and offered Bucky’s life as a forfeit. 

Yet he hated him more for being the voice of reason. 

“Look,” Rumlow said with a sigh, and Steve thought that maybe his eyes were giving him away. “You know I don’t like him. Never have, never will. If there was something we could do to save him, I wouldn’t follow you blindly because your judgment is clouded and you’re biased, but I wouldn’t condemn him to die either. But what are we going to do? There is nothing.” He shook his head, his eyes dropped and deflected towards the fire. “Just stay with him and make him comfortable, make the passing easier for him to bear.”

Steve sighed again, that hatred bubbling up and making his hands shake. He stood to his feet, nodding at Rumlow for reasons he didn’t understand. “Casualties are a part of war,” Rumlow stated simply as Steve walked away. 

Bucky wasn’t the only one suffering. Pietro had taken another turn for the worse. The kid had been sullen, and shell shocked from the moment they found him but losing his left leg had broken him entirely. The cold hindered the healing and growth of skin around his stump, and they’d already had to cut into it again to remove further signs of rot. 

Pietro didn’t speak — not even to Wanda — and the only sound he made was crying and screaming at night. Steve knew it was taking a toll on the men, but there was nowhere else to put him. Even Steve’s large heart couldn’t bring himself to welcome the kid into the house. If it had been just him, then he would have put the kids there and bunked down with his men, but Bucky needed the warmth, and he needed the sleep more than any of them. 

Steve took that decision on himself and shouldered the guilt. 

His thoughts troubled him, gnawing away at his mind. He busied himself with his radio, turning the dials and listening for any signs of life, any attempts for Command to get in contact with them. They’d salvaged parts from the old generator, and rigged up a better antenna, though it did them little good. 

One day soon, he told himself. One day soon there would be a broadcast calling to them, to the Howling Commandos so long lost. Calling for Karpov and the Winter Soldiers. Command would ask where they were, what condition they were in and when Steve told them, they would send help. The fighting on the borders between the Germans and the Soviet soldiers would break and help would be able to get through. They would come with trucks and tanks, snowmobiles and have helicopters waiting. 

Bucky would get to a hospital where some nurse in a starched uniform could take care of him while Steve made himself at home by the side of his bed. 

It was a perfect dream, and every day Steve found himself checking the radio over and over, desperate to hear the sounds of a friendly voice. 

A friendly voice never came. 

All he got was static and interrupted Russian he couldn’t understand. Sometimes he got whispers of German, gruff and harsh and he shuddered and changed the channel. He could understand a lot of the words, but they made no sense, the code turning the broadcasts into a scrambled mess of nonsense. 

Bucky didn’t look sick; that was the scary thing, and his wounds thankfully hadn’t become infected. He’d simply become the perfect reflection of his nickname. The Winter Soldier; dark hair against ghostly white porcelain skin, red lips, flushed cheeks and eyes as bright as ice in the night. The white fur pelt he wore across his shoulders shrank in comparison to his complexion, and those untamed curls were darker than the bark of any winter tree. 

He no longer walked; he glided, even his healing leg hardly keeping him down. A shadow between the rundown buildings of the farmstead, a smudge in the trees of the perimeter; Bucky was more like a ghost than ever. He’d lost weight — the only visible sign that his body was struggling to fight a hopeless battle — to the point where his footprints hardly left a dent in the icy drifts. He made no sound, broke no twigs underfoot and swirled up no loose powder as he passed. 

Even the cold didn’t seem to bother him like it did the others. They would huddle around their fires, wrap themselves in jackets and flea-bitten blankets and nurse mugs of melted snow to warm their hands. Bucky’s fingertips were pale as snow, the bloodshot blemishes that winter created around the nail beds nowhere to be seen. It was like his blood had stopped circulating, or as if there wasn’t enough of it to go around. Cheeks and lips and flicks of crimson when he coughed, yet the rest of him was bloodless and immune. 

Steve could see why poets and artists had romanticized the sickness for years. A mere century ago, it was believed to be beautiful; women and men had powdered their faces and painted their lips and cheeks to achieve that flawless splendour that Bucky wore day after day. They had gone onto the streets, seeking out the darkest, dirtiest places and paid for kisses from the sick in hopes of shedding a little weight and colour. 

They had wanted to be claimed by death young, taken to the other world in a way that left a reasonably beautiful corpse. Writers had openly declared that they wanted to die of Consumption — the White Plague — just as they had drawn parallels to Vlad and vampires and incubi in the night. It offered a surreal death, making one slow and becomingly fragile, dainty and reliant upon others. Romantic in the need and co-dependency of it all. 

Bucky had never been like that. Always strong, always alone and independent. Steve knew that Bucky hated the way he fussed over him, but Steve couldn’t help himself. There was something about him that just seemed to need it. It called to Steve in all the ways that the sickness no doubt called to those writers and poets of old.

Steve had once overheard Rollins say that Bucky was dead already. That he was just a spectre with all the strength and worth of a drunken hallucination. 

“He’s a fuckin’ lunger,” Rollins had added, “There ain’t no savin’ that shit.” 

Steve couldn’t help himself. He’d lashed out, his fury building brute force and had dislocated Rollins’s shoulder, telling him that it was his turn to see how it felt to not be able to hold a gun. Rumlow had pulled him off, yelling and screaming at him to get a grip and Steve did just that, snapping Rollins’ finger even as Rumlow yanked him backwards. 

Panting and riled up, Steve stood like a wolf ready to pounce, Rumlow blocking Rollins as he yowled in pain, clutching at his hand with snot and saliva running down his face. 

“He’s not dead,” Steve snarled as he stalked away. No, Bucky wasn’t dead. He was alive and beautiful. Ethereal, silent, graceful; exalted. A creature that surpassed them all; evolution in its purest form. 

Alone in the woods, Steve had fallen to his knees, hands gripping his hair and elbows sinking into the snow. His mind; he was losing his goddamn mind, and Bucky was wasting away in front of him. Dying slowly, deserted in the starkness of winter and Steve was seeing it as beautiful. 

They had to get the fuck out of here.

Night changed everything, though. In the light of the moon and stars and campfires, Bucky looked hollow. It was only then that one could tell his eyes were sunken with the black circles of sleepless nights. 

And it was at night that he coughed. Long, rattling bouts that left him shaking and wheezing, blood staining his chin and tears in his eyes. 

His body seemed to live out all four seasons in an hour, going from boiling hot to tepid and then icy cold. Bucky would shake and shiver, his teeth rattling and his hands shaking so fiercely that it was a struggle for Steve to get a hold of them. 

Steve held him; it was all he could do. He’d wrap his arms around the frail body and battled the fevers, pulling blankets up and tossing them off as Bucky’s temperature fluctuated. In the dead of night, he would cry, his tears adding to the sweat that gathered across Bucky’s forehead, and he would tell Bucky that everything would be okay. They would be found soon, or the battles would break, and they’d have their chance to make it across the lines and borders that kept them from home. He’d tell Bucky that he wouldn’t let him go, that he would find a way to save him and that they would go home together, home to Brooklyn where Bucky could get healthy and strong. Or maybe they’d find somewhere by the sea. Bucky had said he liked the sea. 

When the words ran dry, Steve repeated them; a mantra to be chanted until his throat went hoarse. It was easier than giving himself over to the thoughts in his own head. 

Bucky would pretend to sleep, and Steve would whisper until the sun came up, and Bucky’s coughs started again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, something amazing happened after posting the previous chapter. Not only did everyone’s support make me feel a lot better, but I stumbled across a prompt on Tumblr and ended up speed writing. I’m sure most people have seen it by now, but if you haven’t and you’re in need of something more light-hearted to read, be sure to check out [Myfuckbuddy is nice to my cat, and other serious problems (that Bucky has at 1 in the morning)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27075838). 
> 
> I honestly wouldn’t have been able to get into the mindset to write it without the encouragement from here, so in a crazy loop, I decided that happy, fluffy story to the readers of this dark, violent story XD
> 
> As always, I love to hear from you guys, so let me know what you thought (and if you have any predictions about what is to come).


	11. Part XI - So let mercy come and wash away what I've done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This. This is the chapter that everything has been building to, and it poses the questions and matter of circumstances that I really wanted to ask with this fic. 
> 
> Strap yourselves in and grab a blankie/pillow/animal/imaginary Bucky to ~~strangle~~ hug. 
> 
> I’m sure we all know Linkin Park, but why not give them another play towards the end of this chapter. [What I've Done](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qu0k38VMaV4)

**Part XI**

_So let mercy come and wash away what I've done_

*****

“We have orders,” Steve said abruptly. The soldiers snapped to attention, eyes focused, and Bucky could see the Russian strays looking on curiously. He knew that Wanda was picking up on English rapidly, but she never spoke it out loud. 

Bucky sat by the fire, forgotten and ignored, and he found it oddly comforting. Killer or sick, he still had the same standing in the group as he always had. He was the outsider. Only Peter and Morita talked to him; them and Wanda and Bucky found it a cold comfort that he was thankful to have. The fewer people that came near him, the less he had to worry about spreading the illness that attacked his lungs and body. He didn’t want that blood on his hands and didn’t want to be the silent bullet that cut them all down. 

“Are we being extracted?” Rumlow asked, his body uncurling from the hunched position he had taken to clean his gun. As much as they had bunkered down and settled in, they were still soldiers, and Bucky respected that. 

Steve shook his head, and Bucky watched as hopes deflated. 

The farmstead was heaven-sent, but they weren’t equipped to really weather the winter there. Hunting in the forest provided most of their food and wood for constant warmth, but without a store of crops, the thrill of fresh meat was slowly dwindling. Wanda had started trying to grow a few sprigs of root plants that could be eaten, but getting anything to sprout in this weather was a fool's goal. Still, she had taken to going on walks with Peter, and the two of them would return with what vegetation she deemed edible enough to mix into a bone-broth stew. 

Looking past the threat of scurvy, it was the boredom that wore them all down. Bucky knew not a single one of them resented their shelter, but the Howling Commandos were first and foremost a group of highly trained military operatives. They’d been on mission for months before things had turned sour, and while the subsequent trek through the snow had been hell for all, it was what they were trained to do. Sitting around and waiting for unknown relief wasn’t something that they taught in army training, and Bucky could see the twitch of restlessness in all of them.

Bucky didn’t feel it as bad as the Commandos. His mission was to keep them alive and get them home, so being here did at least half of that. Karpov would call him weak, but the last thing Bucky wanted to do was go back out there and march towards an unattainable goal. Deep down, Bucky already knew he couldn’t get them home.

The Howling Commandos had a fear of the unknown nipping at their heels as well. Each day they sat here was another day that the war raged on without them. No lines of communication and no way to help their comrades; it was a hard bullet to swallow. 

Which was why silence fell the moment Steve had spoken, and Bucky saw the men hanging on weighted breath as Steve answered Rumlow. 

“They can’t get us out,” Steve said, matter-of-factly, his lips pressed into a tight line. “Not yet. But command has asked for our assistance.”

“Why should we help them?” Rollins muttered. No one verbally agreed with him, but Bucky could see it in their faces. There wasn’t a single one of them, Peter and Morita included, who wasn’t thinking exactly the same thing. All this time with no contact, not even a muttered word of support over the radio and now they wanted assistance. 

It was the way of war, harsh and unrelenting, and Bucky kept his eyes down to protect himself; he understood that duty demanded obedience. 

“There’s a supply caravan,” Steve continued, the looks of his men doing naught to deter his determination. “The German troops have passed the border and are trying to push into Moscow.” That had Bucky’s attention, and he met Steve’s gaze. “It’s turning into a siege, but the Red Army is prevailing. The Germans are calling for more supplies and troops.”

“And our orders?” Rumlow asked.

“Intercept. Root them out and make sure the supplies don’t make it. We’re not to engage the larger forces. Just stop the supply line.” 

“Location?”

“Command estimates it to be fifty klicks from our current position.” Steve let the words sink in, let the men curse and grumble to themselves at the idea. It was a small thing, but Bucky noticed it. Three months ago, Steve would have been on them like a tonne of bricks for muttering against orders. It was not their place to question the chain of command, but right now, harsh words and bullying wouldn’t win them over. They needed to have their thoughts and moments of disgruntled insubordination else Steve would lose them entirely. 

Bucky’s right eyebrow rose slightly as he realised he was rather proud of the Captain. 

Fifty klicks could be done in a day at a forced march. But that didn’t take into consideration scouting and orientation or the need to be stealthy. It would make it a good day and night march, there and back and not accounting for the time needed to plan and execute the surprise attack. 

“We leave at nightfall,” Steve finally concluded, “March through to midnight then break at first light. We’ll be in position by the following evening.”

It was a challenging pace, one that would wear them down more than they already were, but Bucky knew it could be done. 

No one voiced what Bucky was thinking. They took their orders, moved on out to make preparations and held the hope of getting some sleep before trudging through the falling snow. But no one seemed to see the holes that Bucky did, and Bucky didn’t know if he was grateful for that or not. 

When it was just him and Steve left, him sitting and Steve standing on the other side of the fire, Bucky spoke up. 

“We’ll never make it with Wanda and Pietro.” His eyes flicked up, catching the way Steve shuffled his feet and rubbed a gloved hand across the top of his lip. Steve knew it. 

“They’re not coming.”

Bucky nodded slowly to himself, his mind racing ahead. He already knew what was coming, but for once, he turned to Karpov’s way of reasoning just to buy time. 

He wasn’t ready to deal with the truth. 

“So. We saved them from dead towns to leave them in the middle of nowhere.”

Steve shook his head again, and Bucky braced himself for the rebuttal. Truth be told there was a part of him that already knew what Steve was hinting at; it was undeniable. But Bucky tried. He shushed his mind, keeping those thoughts locked in the back of his consciousness and instead locked his gaze with Steve’s, daring the other man to say what he wanted to. 

“We attack the caravan and come back here. Continue to use this place as a base to wait out winter.”

It was Bucky’s turn to nod this time. The plan was wise; as wise as any foolish raid on a war-sworn enemy could be. They would have a gruelling march, and the fight would be anything but easy, yet at least they would have somewhere warm and safe to return once it was all over. Somewhere to rest and remain disjointed from the rest of the skirmishes. With any luck, they’d have fresh supplies as well. 

_They_ Bucky’s mind said, and Bucky licked his lips. He pushed himself to his feet, his body protesting only slightly. He stood to his full height, looking at Steve over the fire. Waiting for the coffin nail.

It never came, and so Bucky took the lead.

“We’ll leave Peter and Morita. They’re the only ones Wanda will-”

“No.” 

And there it was. They both stopped, and for a moment, Bucky almost entertained the idea of being able to read Steve’s mind and Steve doing the same to him. Eyes locked, they stared each other down, looks of grim determination on both their faces. 

It was Steve who spoke first. “Peter and Morita will come with me. I’ll leave one of the others here. Dum Dum maybe. With you.” Even though he’d known it was coming, Bucky still felt like he had been hit square in the damn chest. 

“You’re not going,” Steve finished, adding salt to the wound. 

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing at the Captain, and for the first time since Steve had picked him up out of the snow, Bucky felt alive again. “What do you mean _I’m not going_?” He took a step closer, his temper rising even as his mind finally opened and let those suppressed thoughts come tumbling in. He knew this was going to come up, from the moment Steve had started talking. They had orders; they would march; they would fight and come home. They. Not him. 

“You’re staying here. The kids need you.”

“You need me!”

“I need you _here_.”

“You need me out there!” Bucky protested, his anger rising, “I know these terrains and how to fucking cover your bac-”

“I need you _safe_!” Steve interjected, louder and angrier than Bucky. It snapped Bucky’s mouth shut abruptly, putting an end to his protests. Steve sucked in a breath and tried to calm himself as he explained, taking advantage of Bucky’s shocked silence. “I need you here, warm and resting. I’m not risking your health.”

Bucky huffed, not quite ready to admit defeat even as he reached for a cigarette. His pack was starting to run empty, and if anyone else had any, they hadn’t made it known. Not that it was really an issue; with the way he coughed he shouldn’t smoke anyway, but it was times like these that had his craving kicking in full swing. His hands shook — from the cold, out of rage; even Bucky didn’t know why — as he fumbled with his lighter and cupped the flame with his hand. 

“Bucky,” Steve said imploringly, and Bucky couldn’t tell if it was the initiation of a truce or a pleading reprimand aimed at the cigarette resting between Bucky’s lips. 

“It’s not right.” Bucky snapped back as he flicked his lighter closed, the tip of his cigarette glowing red as smoke started to rise. 

“Neither is sending you out in this condition.” 

“What’ll the others think?” Bucky resisted the urge to blow the smoke in Steve’s face, just to be defiant. For all he had seen and done and all he had changed as the world fell apart, the traces of the rebellious street kid still remained. “Risk them yet spare me. That’ll make you popular.” 

“They’ll think what I tell them to think,” Steve replied. Bucky scoffed, and this time he did blow smoke into Steve’s face. 

“How very dictatorially German of you.” 

For a moment, Bucky thought Steve was going to make a lunge at his cigarette. His eyes said it all. The way they glared at the glowing white stick between his lips and the way Steve’s fingers seemed to twitch with the urge — or need — to rip it away from Bucky and throw it to the ground. 

Bucky smiled, sucked in another deep breath and all but dared Steve to make a move. 

It probably wasn’t the right thing to do, but honestly, Bucky couldn’t help it. If Steve wanted to be a punk, then Bucky could meet him in the middle, and no doubt beat him with experience. Bucky had years of being a jerk on his side. 

Steve moved, just as Bucky had thought he would, but not in the way Bucky had anticipated. He dropped the cigarette on his own accord. 

Steve’s arms were around him, tight and insistent and Bucky’s struggles only lasted a moment. As much as he hated Steve right now, Bucky could deny him nothing, not with Steve’s head buried in his neck, his breath uneven and hot against his skin. 

Shell shocked, Bucky froze even as Steve’s open hands pushed at his back, crushing their bodies flush against each other. Only then did Bucky move. He wound his arms up, wrapping them around Steve’s neck to hold him just as tightly. 

Bucky could defy Steve all he liked, but he could never deny him. 

“Please, Buck. Understand,” Steve’s voice was a whisper against his skin. So warm and so uneven that Bucky was almost sure the other man was sobbing. The rise and fall of his shoulders suggested as much. Bucky felt his heart sink, his fingers stroking through Steve’s hair on their own accord. “I need you safe. I can’t risk you.”

Bucky closed his eyes and sold his freedom with a nod. 

*****

They didn’t come back. Not the night they were supposed to, not the day after or the night that followed that. 

Bucky sat restlessly. Other times he’d pace, his eyes turned towards the direction they had taken. Wanda kept his stride, following a half step in Bucky’s wake and sat by him when he could no longer stand. She never spoke, never asked or questioned. Just sat as still and silent as Bucky and watched him while he watched the horizon. 

Pietro was a different story. The lad had taken to crying, wailing out in the day and night and neither Bucky, Dum Dum nor Wanda could console him. Bucky wondered if his pain had driven him mad, or maybe he picked up on the tension in the others as they waited. 

The rational side of Bucky took a different approach. It was getting colder, Bucky’s own bones ached and his left shoulder, once dislocated in training, locked and froze painfully. He’d wake up stiff and spend the day uncomfortably rotating his shoulder blade back and forth. It must have been harder for Pietro. The leg he’d lost had never fully healed, and the shatters in the other would feel the cold. 

Darkness fell on the sixth day, and Bucky couldn’t bring himself to move. He stood there, Wanda shivering at his side, and trailed blank eyes across the front of the forest. Pietro’s cries filled the night eerily. When Bucky saw movement, it didn’t even register. It could have been anything, anyone; friend or enemy and Bucky wouldn’t have moved, wouldn’t have noticed. 

It wasn’t until the shapes detached themselves out of the gloom and Wanda started tugging on his arm that Bucky allowed himself to believe that his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. 

The first thing Bucky noticed was that it was Rumlow leading. Panic started to set in.

Dernier wasn’t with them, neither was Rollins. Rumlow had blood on his shirt, across his face and Bucky wondered if it was his own. As the numbers filed out of the wood, Bucky counted. Peter and Morita came, an odd relief to Bucky, but that was all. 

That was all. 

Wanda’s hand was shaking, or maybe it was Bucky’s. He couldn’t tell and couldn’t care as his eyes reminded locked on the forest, on the footprints that were slowly being concealed by the falling snow. 

Where was Steve?

He could tell from the way that the Howling Commandos were walking that they were exhausted. Their packs were too heavy; Bucky could see it in the way the straps strained against shoulders and pulled their spines arching backwards. Peter and Morita were lugging a crate between them on a sled, some wooden thing with sodden stuffing that hung limply out between the slats. They walked carefully, pulling it as one and cautious not to tousle it in the snow. 

Bucky didn’t like the look of it. 

“What happened?” Bucky asked as Rumlow trudged towards the shed. The other man turned hollow eyes towards Bucky and Bucky, for the first time in his life, had the sense to be afraid of Brock Rumlow. There was something so dead there, so lost and drowned, yet hatred and anger simmered below that murky surface. 

Bucky took a step back and pulled Wanda behind him just as Rumlow spat at his feet, his eyes burning.

Not a single word was said as he kept moving. Bucky’s hand shook, and Wanda held on tighter, clutching at his whole arm. 

“Peter?” Bucky called. He moved forward, Wanda scuffling her feet along behind him. Peter and Morita looked up as one and Bucky saw that same darkness in their faces, just like Rumlow. 

“What… where’s Steve?” Bucky asked. It was cold, he knew it, but right now it was all he could focus on, all that his mind screamed out and the only words his tongue and mouth could form. He should have greeted them, should have said something about being happy they were back, but none of those pleasantries came to mind. 

Steve wasn’t there, and Bucky was getting scared. 

Peter sighed, and Bucky thought he was about to pass out. He clutched at Wanda, holding her hand tighter and clawed the other around her shoulder for support. Idly he realised that he was probably hurting her, his hand no doubt forming a bruise, but she didn’t say a thing. She simply stood there and stared, her hand squeezing back and her other one reached backwards to hold onto Bucky’s pelt. 

“He’s-” Bucky was sure he knew what Morita was about to say, sure that he didn’t want to hear the words. That he couldn’t stomach them. Dead. Steve was dead. That was what they didn’t want to tell him; why they looked so tired and defeated. Bucky felt the world start to tip and twist dangerously. Wanda’s hand tightened around his furs, and Peter reached out a steadying hand to support him. 

“Bucky?” Bucky didn’t know if it was Peter or Morita or someone unknown calling for his attention. Peter’s hand on his arm — he could at least feel that — and then Wanda was tugging at his clothes and rattling off a frantic string of Russian that Bucky couldn’t bring himself to even try to focus on. 

There was a hand on his face, gloved and small and unknown, and the world spun as that hand pushed. Bucky saw snow and black bark, trees with their leafless branches scratching at the sky. 

And then he saw him. 

Steve was there, blood-streaked; heavy pack and Bucky remembered to breathe. 

Bucky felt like he hadn’t moved so damn fast in years. One minute he was leaning on Peter, shaking and thinking of the worst and the next he was across the snowy field, his arms locking around Steve’s shoulder and chest tightly. Steve returned in kind, pulling him in so tight that Bucky thought he would suffocate. He didn’t care and simply closed his eyes. 

“Thank god,” Steve breathed out, and Bucky had the feeling that it was meant to be him saying those words. 

“Are you alright?” They both asked the question at the same time. Steve managed a chuckle, but Bucky’s sense of humour had fled him long ago. He held on, desperate for the other man’s warmth and never wanting to let go. Even when Steve pulled back, all strong arms and forceful pushes, Bucky tried to cling, to keep that body pressed against his own. 

Bucky saw the ghosts of a smile on Steve’s lips before they claimed Bucky’s. For the first time since he’d tasted blood in the back of his throat, Bucky didn’t care. He welcomed the kiss with a hungry mouth, all teeth and tongue and needy hands wrapping in Steve’s clothing. He didn’t care who saw them, what they thought or even about the implications that this kiss could be the one to kill Steve. Rumlow’s eyes weren’t even a memory in the back of Bucky’s mind; none of it mattered, none of it existed. All that was real was Steve and the way his lips moved down Bucky’s throat, biting and nipping as Bucky wiggled with the attempt to get closer. 

“Let’s get you inside,” Bucky finally said, stealing words that were usually Steve’s. 

*****

The cabin hadn’t changed. Not that Steve had expected it to, but it was the sort of thought that flashed through his mind as he walked into the place he begrudgingly considered home. 

Peter and Morita had left the crate at the steps, and Steve didn’t miss the way the Bucky eyed it suspiciously. Steve kept his mouth shut and dropped his pack on the small porch before turning his attention to the wooden box. He’d protested when Bucky had hefted the heavy bag into his arms and carried it inside, but it was only half-formed. Instead, Steve turned his attention to the crate, using his knees to heft it up off the sled and then walked with a stagger up the steps. Bottles clinked as he moved, and Steve prayed for a steady hand as he lowered the box to the table. 

As the door closed behind them, Steve prepared himself for what he knew was coming. He had already faced it with his own men, seen the looks in their eyes and experienced the deathly silent march back to the cabin in the woods. Of course, they disapproved, and Steve knew that Bucky would be even harder to win over. 

Steve didn’t know how to approach the subject, and Bucky’s constant aversion to talking didn’t make it any easier. Even so, when Bucky did the work for him, his eyes skimming to the crate and his feet leading him towards it, Steve didn’t feel like he had been spared any significant task. The worst was yet to come. 

And it did. Quickly and simply and straight to the point. That was the worst thing with Bucky; he was so much smarter than the others, his mind so much quicker even with the sickness in his body. Bucky noticed straight away, but the others only seemed to realise when Dernier had taken the first bullet to the chest. 

“This is Russian,” Bucky stated, his eyes skimming over the crate and the stamped markings. Bucky opened the lid, took a single look at the bottles and stepped back. 

His glare burned Steve’s skin, charring him right down to the fractured remains of his consciousness. 

Steve couldn’t meet his gaze, especially not when Bucky sucked in air harshly as realisation dawned on him. 

“There were no orders,” Bucky said slowly, the pieces of Steve’s deception no doubt clicking into place. Steve rubbed his thumb over an imaginary itchy spot next to his nose and said nothing. 

No orders. Russian supplies of medicine. Dernier dead, Rollins shot and the rest slaughtered. 

Bucky looked like he was about to be sick; Steve could see it out of the corner of his downturned eyes. 

Instead of retching, Bucky exploded. “You fucking led your men against our allies?” 

And it was game time. Steve lifted his eyes, locked them with Bucky’s and clenched his jaw. He would not be defeated in this. “I did it for you.” Maybe they weren’t the best choice of words to placate the other man, but they were the truth, and in all the deception, Steve hated lying to Bucky the most. 

Bucky was off, his trademark rage kicking in full swing and Steve licked at his lips and steeled his heart to deal with it. “Don’t you fucking say that! I didn’t ask you. You led your men to their deaths for… for… _They could have helped us!_ ”

Initially, that had been Steve’s hope. It hadn’t been an Allied broadcast he’d heard on the radio. It had been a German one. Plans transmitted so quickly that they hadn’t been coded for secrecy. Steve’s German was far from perfect, but he’d gotten the hint. Orders to take a Russian supply train on route to a pocket of resistance dug in outside of Moscow’s borders. 

With two German units answering the call to attack, the probability of the Russians succeeding was slim to none. 

At first, Steve had figured that the Howling Commandos could help. That they’d be able to band together and push back the German force and, in turn, gain the support and contact of the Red Army and some much-needed supplies in the process. 

The reality, however, provided a much different hand. 

“They’d already been raided,” Steve spoke quickly. He had to make Bucky understand, had to get the man to calm down before he worked himself in a dangerous state. “They were half-dead already, and two German platoons were closing in on them.”

Bucky cursed, no doubt stringing together every foul word he knew, in multiple languages, but Steve continued. 

“We wouldn’t have made it back with them, and they didn’t... They didn’t understand that they were cornered, and they wouldn’t share. If they had just given us-” 

“What the hell have you done?” The way Bucky sighed those words broke Steve’s heart.

“It’s medicine for you!” Steve hated the accusations in Bucky’s eyes. They burnt and blistered with all the heat of a raging fire. His pale face seemed to glow in the light, his cheeks red and his chest heaving unevenly. 

Hands out and open, Steve tried to placate the other man. “It will help you. It will get you well.” 

“No!” Bucky shook his head, his lips pressed together. 

Rage bubbled inside of Steve. He reached down and grabbed one of the glass bottles from the crate, offering it out to Bucky with a shaking hand. “Take it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Bucky.” Steve’s tone was a warning, the single word shaking with pent up determination. This was for the best. It could save him, and Steve needed to make Bucky see that. “Take it!” He pressed his hand forward, shaking the bottle to reaffirm his words. His attempts were met with a harsh slap, a half-formed fist knocking the delicate bottle from his hands. It smashed between them, the valuable medicine staining the dark wood as shards of glass scattered. 

Bucky shook his head, his feet scuffing across the floor as he took a step backwards. “No. I won’t. I’m not going to-”

Steve moved, cutting off Bucky’s words.

Steve hated how easily he could overpower the other man. Bucky had always put up a fight, even in the middle of the night when hands roamed, and teeth nipped. He’d fought for dominance, for equality; he fought to define who he was. He was stronger than any of them; trained and honed physically in ways that no other army dared treat their soldiers. Yet now Steve could easily rush him backwards, and when Bucky’s back hit the wall, the force of it was enough to have his feet lifted clear off the floor. 

Stepping in closer, Steve held Bucky there, one hand bruising Bucky’s hip with his grasp and the other pressed against the wall from the elbow, his hand that tight in the top of Bucky’s hair that it forced the Spetsnaz’s head to the side. Bucky’s ear pressed tight into Steve’s arm, leaving the opposite side of his neck uncovered and stretched out like parchment. Steve couldn’t help but look at it, all pale with blue lines of blood beneath, his eyes tracing their way over that icy skin and up to burning eyes. 

Bucky was scared, Steve could see that, and he had enough rationality left to feel pangs of guilt for his degrading actions. Yet it wasn’t enough to make him stop. Not with the larger picture so clearly in his mind. 

“You have two choices,” Steve whispered against the exposed skin of Bucky’s throat. Entirely subconsciously, Steve licked his lips even as he tried to force himself to look away from the pale lines that ran beneath the white flesh. “You will take it, day and night so that their deaths won’t be in vain.” Finally winning his battle, Steve pressed his forehead against Bucky’s and shuddered at the inhuman warmth he felt there. 

Bucky was sick, he was dying and yet he was arguing. It made Steve’s blood boil and his hand tighten in that curly hair. 

“Or I will hold you down, every day and every damn night, and I will fucking force it down your throat.” Bucky was shaking, his entire body trembling against Steve, and it made Steve sick to know that part of that was born of fear. Fear of him. Bucky looked terrified. Like some wounded animal about to be put out of its misery with a bullet. Bucky had never seemed panicked before, not while lost in the wilderness or while running with bullets biting at his heels. Not even when he’d brazenly walked towards a German tank with martyrdom on his mind. 

“What’s it to be, Bucky?” 

Finally, Steve stepped back, letting Bucky slide down the wall until he sat, his feet were flat on the ground and his knees raised. Steve’s boot crushed glass as he stood his ground and picked up a second vial and crouched in front of the Spetsnaz. He held it out to the Spetsnaz expectantly. 

It took a moment, but Bucky reached out for it. He grabbed the bottle and Steve could see the fight in his eyes. He was going to smash it; the actions were written all over his face like a book that only Steve could read. Steve waited and watched, taking in the look on Bucky’s face, and when Bucky’s arm made ready to throw the vial across the room, Steve reached out and snatched Bucky's wrist. He caught it with his thumb, little and ring finger; his index and middle finger snapping up to cover Bucky’s fist, keeping the bottle safely locked behind both their fingers. 

Bucky hissed at him, tugging at his wrist in an attempt that made Steve’s heartache. He was so weak. Steve never should have been able to hold him like this. 

“I don’t want to,” Steve said simply, suffering the heat of Bucky’s glare. “Don’t make me do it, Buck.”

Slowly, he released his grip, his jaw tightening as Bucky’s top lip pulled back in a snarl. Bucky was submissive, defeated and resigned to his fate; Steve could tell by the way his eyes lost their fire and the way the corners of his lips drooped downwards ever so slightly. 

Bucky popped the lid, his eyes locked with Steve’s and his head shaking ever so slightly in the negative; in disgust. He downed the medicine one go, the liquid draining from the bottle. Then he smashed the vial just to prove his point, and Steve loved him even more in that very moment. 

Defiant to the bitter end. 

“Bucky,” Steve cooed, stepping closer so he could trail his fingers over Bucky’s blood flushed cheek. 

“Don’t,” Bucky hissed, his right arm sweeping up to bat Steve’s arm away with all the force of a butterfly flapping its wings. Bucky wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t letting Steve see his eyes, and it hurt. He knew he deserved it, knew that he had done the wrong thing — everything he had done had been wrong. Leaving Bucky behind, faking the orders and risking, then losing, so many lives to get something based on selfish reasons. He had betrayed them all and then threatened the person he had sworn to save. Steve had willingly allowed the blood of his men to cover his hands, and he’d stained Bucky in the process. 

And Steve would do it all again in an instant, even if it meant Bucky would hate him forever. At least, in that hate, Bucky would stand a chance.

Bucky staggered his way to his feet, and over to the chair he kept by the window. He flopped down in it, his body limp. A sigh filled the room, though Steve couldn’t tell if it came from him or Bucky. All he knew was that right there, with the wind blowing his dark hair and his face highlighted by the moon, Bucky looked like a ghost. A painting from some bygone era of a heavenly creature tossed carelessly to earth and left to stare longingly at the heavens. 

Something about it all made Steve crazy with lust. He wanted to grab Bucky, to pull him to the bed and ravish him for hours. To have Bucky pleading and struggling and moaning so deliciously under him in all the ways that had been denied to them since that fateful day Steve had found him with blood in his hands and worry in his eyes. He wanted to see the way that Bucky’s mouth would fall open and his eyes would flutter closed every time that Steve thrust into him. 

Yet at the same time, he wanted nothing more than to coddle him. To fold him up in his arms and treat him like the doll his appearance was starting to resemble. Gone was the soldier, gone was the sniper, the assassin and the deadly killer. The man who, while submitting, would ensure that their lovemaking was rough and wild. Who would fight and sink nails into Steve’s arm with each drive of Steve’s hips. 

Looking at Bucky, there in the present, sick and in his chair while memories of nights past raced through his head, Steve knew he was losing his fucking mind. It was this godforsaken place. He was tethering on the edge of breaking point where the ice was thin and the water beneath cold and endless and full of depravity and bad decisions. 

Licking his chapped lips, Steve strode across the room and collected up the blanket that pooled at the base of the chair. Flicking it out, he pulled it over Bucky, making sure it covered his feet and legs before tucking it in around his shoulders and under his chin. 

Bucky didn’t say a word, nor did he look up at him, all he did was pull his arms free of the makeshift cocoon and reach out to open the window. A cold gust of air blew through, flakes of snow floating in the breeze and Steve closed his eyes against the echoing sound of Pietro’s sobs. The snowflakes landed in Bucky’s hair, painful white against black and sank quickly into the curls. Steve shivered, and Bucky pushed the blanket right down to his lap. 

“Bucky, please,” Steve started, his hand tentatively stretching forward. It hung in the air uselessly, his mind not quite decided on if he should reach for the blanket again or snap out to yank the window closed. 

“Leave me,” Bucky snapped, his body shifting away from Steve’s presence and thus closer to the window. 

Steve could have bested him, could have dragged him kicking and screaming to the warmth of bed without even breaking a sweat, but his rage was subsiding, and it made things change. It took away everything in Steve and left him hollow with eyes that saw the world clearly. 

Bucky was looking more like the sick person he was and not some otherworldly dream of beauty. 

Steve stood back, his bottom lip caught between his teeth and his eyebrows furrowed in worry. He hated this, hated those white droplets of winter that clung to the fan of Bucky’s eyelashes. He hated the red in Bucky’s cheeks, the pallor of his skin and the stain that coloured his lips. Steve hated the fact this his own teeth chattered together while Bucky sat still and motionless as a statue in the freezing winter. He hated the image it painted and the implications of it all. 

Bucky sat in his chair by the open window, his cheeks flushed, and Steve sat on the edge of the bed, knees spread, elbows on thighs and hands clasped. He tried not to watch Bucky, tried not to think of all the reasons that Bucky shouldn’t be near that window. It didn’t work, so he kept his eyes on his hands and on the dark floorboards at his feet and watched as flakes of snow fell on the floor of their shared cabin. 

The sedatives in the mixture were working. Steve could see it in the way that Bucky slumped in the chair, the way his eyes struggled to stay open. He was breathing deeply through his mouth, his hands clenching and unclenching at the folds of the blanket across his lap. 

Steve abided his time, his nails biting into the skin of his hands as he waited and watched.

Finally, Steve snapped. He pushed himself to his feet and crossed the small room in three long strides. Ignoring Bucky’s muffled protests, he slammed the window shut, cutting out Pietro’s wailing before yanking the blanket off and scooping the other man up into his arms. Bucky muttered a curse, his body twisting for a moment before falling still as Steve carried him to the bed. Bucky was like feathers in his arms, light and frail and utterly pliable. 

Bucky shook and trembled, and Steve told himself it was from the cold, from the sickness and not fear and revulsion. Steve moved to fit around him, tightening his arms and pulling Bucky against his chest as he piled the blankets high. 

Steve told himself that he had done the right thing and that the trade of lives was worth it. This was where Bucky belonged. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo. Yeah. What do you think, huh?
> 
> Is Steve in the right?  
> Is he in the wrong?  
> Are his actions forgivable because it was for Bucky?  
> What about consequences?  
> How far would you go for the one you loved?
> 
> Are they all starting to go mad?
> 
> As always, I love your comments and really enjoy have chats about the themes and the horrible shit that these poor guys are being put through. XD


	12. Part XII - Would you kill to save a life?  To prove you’re right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know when you just have ‘one of those weeks’? That’s been me. I feel like I’m constantly behind, and yet with nothing really happening, and that I’m chasing my own tail. I almost didn’t get this up and posted and like, the fic is finished. Edited. Everything. All I had to do was this quick author note and post it, and I’m only just getting around to it at 7:30 after a huge day. 
> 
> But! I made it. 
> 
> Also, ya’ll know I don’t do this often (and let’s face it, if you’ve made it this far in this story, then you’re not easily rattled and you have a pretty good idea of what is coming) but I will just direct your attention back to the warnings listed on chapter one. 
> 
> This chapter is pretty violent and could be disturbing to some readers.

**Part XII**

_Would you kill to save a life? To prove you’re right?_

*****

The lad looked so peaceful, his eyes closed and his mouth open. What was left of his legs were splayed out under the blanket, useless and immobile. Pietro’s hands were by his sides. 

But his chest didn’t rise, nor did it fall, and Bucky understood why Dum Dum had come for him. 

Maybe it had been the time they’d spent alone in the wilderness with the two Russian strays, but the other man was finally opening up around Bucky. They didn’t chat — far from it — but they shared a silent nod when passing, and that was more than before. 

Then again, maybe it was just pure need and terror that had caused Dum Dum to come scratching at his door in the early morning light. 

Bucky hadn’t expected it either way. Not the knock and certainly not Dugan being the cause. 

“Pietro’s dead,” Dum Dum had said once Bucky had opened the door. Bucky had paused, his mind not quite registering the words even as his hand had slipped from the wooden handle to thump uselessly against his side. 

“What?” Bucky had asked, not trusting his ears or his mind. He’d spent the night in fever, tossing and turning and struggling against Steve’s arms just as much as he had tried to burrow closer when the chill set in. Even now his head was light, the world blurred beyond the softness of the snow. 

He’d taken his medicine this morning, swallowing it down under Steve’s watchful eye. Bucky still hadn’t worked out what made him feel so nauseous; the sedative in the mix, or the blood of his comrades that he always saw on the bottles. 

Dum Dum had merely pressed his lips together and stood away from the door, inviting Bucky out into the cold. Bucky had closed his eyes as he stepped over the threshold, the words finally making sense as he felt the weight of the other’s pain. It was pliable and real and choking. 

They’d trudged their way across the frozen courtyard, the falling snow sinking into both their hair. Bucky had pulled his coat tighter, his body shuddering against the cold. He felt it today. Sometimes he didn’t feel the chill, sometimes all he could feel was heat and fire as his blood seemed to boil in his body. 

Today was a cold day, one born of ice and winter and Bucky could feel it all the way down to his bones. 

They moved out of the weather and into the storehouse. Bucky had felt the weight of eyes. Peter and Morita, Wanda in the corner; they had all looked at him with solemn expressions and heavy silence. 

Pietro hadn’t moved. 

Dum Dum had gone to stand with the rest of them, eyes downcast and mouth closed, and Bucky had resigned himself to what they wanted, what they needed from him. With a sigh, he had crouched down beside Pietro and right now, in the present, he could feel his heart trying to beat clear out of his chest. 

Pietro was dead. 

Sleeping. That was how Pietro looked. A child lost in the world of peaceful slumber, and even if Dum Dum hadn’t already told him, Bucky would have found it creepy.

Ever the strong one, ever the brave one, Bucky did what none of them could. His hand shook as he leaned over the corpse, his mind racing though his face was blank. Bucky could remember the feeling of needle and thread passing through Pietro’s skin and the way Bucky had forced his hand not to shake. He could remember snapping off the remains of broken bone and trying to file down the shards. They needed him like that now, cold and heartless and unlike any of them.

Red blotches covered Pietro’s cheeks, and Bucky felt his resolve flutter as his eyes did the same. The others would think it was from the cold, but Bucky knew better, and at that moment, he hated himself. He hated everything he was, everything he had been trained to be. All those things that Karpov had drilled into his head, all the ways to kill that left no trace. Hated flashes of white parachute over a gaping mouth that struggled to breathe. Bucky hated it all. 

It was easier not to know. 

Bucky already had his suspicions. They were screaming at him, making his body want to jump back in disgust, yet he stilled his movements and reached for Pietro’s eyes. They said in stories that you could see the reflection of one’s killer in the eyes of the dead. That the person’s last dying sight would stay there, projected for all the world to see; all you had to do was look. 

That wasn’t what Bucky was searching for. He looked for something else entirely as he forced those frozen eyes open. Staring into the face of death, Bucky found the answers, truths he didn’t want, and resisted the urge to retch. 

_Murder_.

“Bucky?” Peter asked, and Bucky almost didn’t respond. He was so used to ‘Ghost’ or ‘Barnes’ from Peter that it hardly seemed like the other man was talking to him.

“Who was on watch last night?” Bucky finally asked, his tongue thick and his mouth dry. 

_Murder_.

Again it was Peter who found his voice. “Morita and I. We shared the shifts.”

“I took first, and Peter took second,” Morita clarified. Bucky nodded silently and moved his hand to pull Pietro’s lifeless eyelids back down. Best that they didn’t see that. Or maybe they already had, and that was why they’d sought him out—clarification from the only trained assassin among them. 

“The others?” Bucky pressed. 

Dum Dum spoke up, his voice an alien tone to Bucky. “I was asleep,” he said, the words not half as stable as his conviction. 

“Dugan was on afternoon watch,” Peter explained, fleshing out the happenings of the men. 

“Rumlow?” Bucky asked. He was the only one not present, him and Steve. The moment Bucky said Rumlow’s name, he felt a shudder run his spine. Karpov called it intuition, as did the rest of the Winter Soldiers, but considering what happened to his comrades, Bucky wasn’t too sold on trusting instincts. 

That didn’t change the fact that he had felt it though — right down in his bones — that Rumlow had something to do with all this. 

“He was asleep,” Morita said.

“But I haven’t seen him all morning,” Peter added. 

“Does Steve know?” Bucky finally asked. 

Steve hadn’t been in bed that morning when Bucky woke, but that wasn’t unusual. With Bucky indisposed and the men stretched thin, Steve had taken it on himself to be the hunter of the group, setting out once Bucky was still and asleep to find game and forage roots for soup in the grey light of dawn. It was his way of providing, given that he couldn’t bear to be away on watch during the night.

Silence followed, and Bucky looked up to see the three of them exchanging looks. 

“We thought he was with you,” Dum Dum spoke up. “Gathered, he would follow you out the door when I called for you.”

Bucky nodded. So Steve must be out hunting. He told them as much while turning his attention from the dead boy to the young woman who sat shaking in the corner. Wanda had been silent the entire time, her eyes locked on Pietro like her life depended on it. The sight tore at Bucky’s heart.

“Wanda,” Bucky said softly. He tried to ignore the three men in the room, his eyes locked with Wanda’s as he crab-crawled closer. She blinked, her eyes huge and dark as always and Bucky almost felt lost looking into them. 

“Did you…” Bucky frowned, trying to find the words he was looking for. There was no real polite way to ask if someone had witnessed a murder, and Bucky had never been one gifted with honeyed words. 

“Did you see something,” he settled on. It was about as diplomatic as he could possibly be.

She shook her head in a silent no. Bucky frowned before schooling his features. Getting angry sure as hell wasn’t going to fix the situation. “You can tell me,” Bucky continued, his head bobbing down even lower so he could look up at her as she sat. 

Wanda’s face crinkled up, her eyes narrowing and she looked for all the world like she was sucking on a lemon. But her mouth moved. Slowly and hesitantly, up and down and yet not really forming words. She was thinking about it, weighing up what to say, and Bucky offered her an encouraging smile while reaching out with the intent to take her hand. She always liked that. It made her far chattier when their fingers were laced together or when she was sitting flush against his side. 

Then her eyes flicked to the door, her mouth shut tightly and Bucky heard his own name. 

Steve’s voice was desperate as he broke through the door, the cold gust of wind as insistent as his steps. 

“There you are,” Steve breathed out. He had a brace of rabbits in his hand, holding them up by their long ears and his rifle over his shoulder. Bucky could tell that he had been worried. Part of him felt terrible just as another rebelled; he wasn’t sick enough to be confined to his bed and he sure as hell didn’t have to inform Steve every time he intended to leave the cabin. 

Huffing to himself, Bucky kept his eyes on Wanda, ignoring Steve for the time being. He knew his anger was ill-placed and unjustified, born mainly from Steve’s poor timing. 

Wanda’s head dropped to her knees, her hands circling her legs, and Bucky knew that he had lost her. She needed time. Whether she had seen anything or not, it hadn’t been easy to listen to Pietro’s cries, and it had to be even harder to see him lying there lifeless. 

Bucky got to his feet, his head racing to conclusions even he couldn’t focus on. He needed to think, needed to get his mind around the horrors he had seen in Pietro’s eyes. 

He needed a cigarette. 

Casting a forlorn look at those in the room, Bucky nibbled at his bottom lip before turning around and stalking towards the door. He grabbed Steve’s arm as he went, pulling the other man out behind him with a strength he hadn’t realised he had left. They stumbled out into the blinding cold, Bucky letting Steve go once he knew the other man would follow. His hands turned to his pockets, scrounging for his remaining cigarettes and finding his lighter along the way. Jabbing one between his teeth, he flicked the lighter open, clicked out the flame and breathed in deep, all before Steve could protest. 

“You shouldn’t be-” Steve started, and Bucky just shook his head, exhaling the smoke out into the cold air. No, he really shouldn’t be smoking. It sure as hell did him no favours when the coughing hit, but right now, he needed it almost as much as he needed air. 

His hands shook as he drew the cigarette away to exhale before once again pressing it between his lips. 

Bucky could tell his silence was wearing on Steve. It was all in the other man’s eyes; they fidgeted, looking from Bucky’s mouth, to the cigarette, back to the storehouse and then locked with Bucky’s own gaze. Bucky waited until he was halfway through the cigarette before he let his eyes fall closed. The rush was taking over, the hit of nicotine calming his nerves and slowly working to still the shake in his hands. He licked his lips, flicked his head towards the storehouse and opened his eyes. 

One step forward and he started to explain, the cigarette continually moving through the air to allow him to suck back deep draughts. 

“Pietro’s dead. He was suffocated,” Bucky whispered, his eyes searching Steve’s face. The other man’s eyebrows shot up, his mouth opening slightly as the full weight of Bucky’s words set in. Smoke puffed out between them. 

“Maybe he just-”

“I’m not wrong.” Bucky shook his head, cutting off Steve’s attempt to find another solution. “I’ve…” Bucky stuttered, finding the truth harder to voice than he would have thought. He brought time by finishing the cigarette before flicking the butt to the ground. “I’ve seen it before. Caused it before.” Parachutes material and a surprise after the drop; Bucky had done what he had to. What he’d been trained to. 

If Steve was disgusted by Bucky’s confession, then he didn’t show it. Bucky continued. “His eyes. They were bloodshot, covered with burst capillaries. The splodges on his cheeks, the colour of his lips. It’s not the cold; it’s the signs of asphyxiation.”

Just as Bucky expected, Steve asked the question that was racing through Bucky’s own head. “Then who did it?”

Bucky had no answer. Part of him hated that and part was thankful. For all he knew, for all he had been taught and the monster Bucky had been turned into, he still couldn’t be judge and jury. 

“Peter and Morita were on patrol,” Bucky sighed, his hand lifting to rub at his temple. “Dum Dum claims he was asleep, as does Rumlow though I can’t find him and Wanda is in a state of shock; she won’t even speak to me.”

Steve nodded slowly, the creases between his eyebrows growing deeper as he looked out into the woods. Bucky wondered what he was thinking. Did Steve see it? The way they were all starting to fall apart? Holed up and lost in the frozen winter with nothing but their own demons for company? 

Nibbling at his bottom lip and resisting the urge to light another cigarette, Bucky entertained the idea that he could read Steve’s thoughts. Or maybe it was the other way around as Bucky was pretty damn sure they were all starting to lose their minds. 

*****

“Washing something away?”

Bucky hadn’t expected to find Rumlow here. The other man was crouched down on the banks of the small stream, his arms submerged wrist-deep in the cold waters, his hands rubbing over each other like a man possessed. 

Death hung over the camp, the feeling so strong that it almost burned the back of Bucky’s throat. Bucky had needed to get away. Steve was organising Pietro’s burial, Peter and Morita searching through the tangle of wears in the store hut in hopes of finding a shovel, so it had been easy to slip out unnoticed. 

Something about the murder had Bucky’s nerves shot to shit. His hands were shaking, not from the cold, and his mind was a mess. He could no sooner concentrate on a single thought then it was out of his head, being replaced by three others that tangled and twined like soldiers locked in a duel. Nothing was making sense. Pietro, murder, the silence; it all pounded in the back of Bucky’s mind, clouding his judgement far beyond logic. 

Bucky needed space to think, to process the information he had found with a clear mind. 

Instead, what he had found was the missing Second-Lieutenant and a river that moved fast enough to wash away sin. It had been that sight that spurred Bucky’s words, heralding his presence to the other man in a way that had Rumlow’s shoulders hitching upwards with a start. 

Yet, as always, Rumlow’s response was curt and straight to the point, the words snapped out and Bucky’s last name more of a curse than a title. “What are you trying to say, Barnes?” Defensive and angry; if Bucky hadn’t already been on edge, that tone would have done it. 

“Nothing,” Bucky said too quickly. He paused, watching the way Rumlow’s shoulders seemed to tense ever so slightly. He wished he could see his face. Bucky was no mind reader, but he knew what to look for, those subtle signs of guilt and the tell-tale ticks of spinning lies. “Just that… looks like you have a guilty conscience.”

Rumlow didn’t say a thing as he pulled his hands from the stream and patted them dry on the material of his pants. Bucky watched, his eyes narrowed and his teeth sinking slowly into his bottom lip. 

He was being irrational; he told himself this. It was his own hatred towards the other man that was driving the single worded thought through the mess of his mind and making it stick prominently at the front. 

_Murderer_. 

Bucky had no evidence, no reason to back up the irrational way his mind screamed at him to pin the blame on Rumlow. He remembered the way he had found Wanda, the way Rumlow had snapped and the confrontation that had followed, yet he also heard Rumlow’s words in his mind, telling Rollins that they wouldn’t leave anyone behind, sick or not. Each aspect of the other man warred inside Bucky’s head; the good, the evil, the soldier following orders and the man left out in the wilderness to die. They battled for the upper hand, neither winning or losing and Bucky was sure he was starting to go mad. 

“What happened to Pietro?” Bucky asked, the words out of his mouth before he’d really thought them and their implications through. 

Rumlow’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowed, and in that instant, Bucky was sure that his suspicions were correct. 

“What did you say?” Rumlow demanded, his teeth clenched so tightly that he had to snarl the words out. 

“Simple question,” Bucky stated. “What happened to Pietro?”

“And you think I know how he died?”

Bucky smirked, but it wasn’t an expression of mirth. “I’m starting to suspect as much.”

“Then you are sicker than you look.” 

Bucky hummed in the back of his throat. “Not as sick as you would hope.” Bucky stated simply with the ghost of a smile. 

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just…” Bucky stalled on purpose, watching the way Rumlow’s jaw clenched and the side of his mouth twitched with each heartbeat. “I find it odd that you deflect to my health, but don’t ask what I meant about Pietro.” Rumlow’s eyes narrowed, his head turning to the side slightly as he looked to the left. Bucky wondered if it was a natural response to being caught out in his lies or if he was generally just that stupid that he still didn’t understand. Bucky really wouldn’t have put either explanation past Rumlow. 

“How did you know he was dead?” Bucky pressed. Peter had said that Rumlow had been gone all morning, so how did he know?

“Pietro’s dead?” Rumlow said sardonically as if he hadn’t just acknowledged it. The words were flat, and Bucky almost laughed at the pathetic attempt to throw suspicion. 

“Tell me, Rumlow,” Bucky questioned. “Was it the pillow or the blanket? Or were you cold enough to use your hand?”

Rumlow didn’t like that; Bucky could see it in the way his eyes flashed wide before narrowing back down. See it in the tightening of his jaw. “What would you have used, Barnes?”

“Oh, we both know the answer to that,” Bucky replied easily. His tone was snide, his eyes shadowed as he lowered his head to look up at Rumlow. There was something in Rumlow’s eyes, dark and wild and dangerous in ways that even Bucky couldn’t portray. Bucky knew it all too well. It was the look of a man possessed, driven to the brink by confused thoughts and conflicting ideals. Bucky had no verification to back up his suspicions, but the way Rumlow looked at him right then was as good as a confession. 

Bucky took a step backwards, not out of fear, but due to understanding. He had seen that look too many times, seen it grow into the features of defeated soldiers and those worn thin. Desperation. The sort that drove them to pointless actions. He’d seen it in the eyes of fellow 181st when condemned to a night at The Spit. He’d seen it in the woman with the red hair when she’d been told to cover her eyes and shoot at a target behind her friend. 

Rumlow’s eyes flicked over him, a smile growing across his face as he took the action in. He stood to his full height and faced Bucky. “Are you afraid of me?” Rumlow asked, the words spoken around a barely concealed laugh. 

Bucky raised one eyebrow, looking the other up and down before slowly shaking his head.

“Should I be?” He wanted to say that he wasn’t. That he had no need to be afraid of someone like _Rumlow_ ; that he was trained to deal with people like Rumlow with indifference. 

“Maybe you should,” the other man said, his back turning to Bucky in a wholly dismissive way. Normally it would have irked Bucky, got his blood boiling in his veins at the idea of being dismissed by someone below him, but he didn’t care. Not now. 

Throwing caution to the wind, Bucky pressed forward. “Was Pietro afraid of you?”

That did it. Rumlow was there, his back turned to Bucky and his shoulders rising with a deep breath, and then the world changed as Rumlow turned. A shift and tilt and Bucky wasn’t so sure he was ready. Rumlow was running at him, and Bucky’s feet kicked up snow before he even knew what was happening. 

All he knew was that an innocent man wouldn’t charge. 

They clashed in the middle, bodies smashing as the air was pushed from lungs. Bucky toppled, and Rumlow followed, dragged down by grasping hands and flying legs. They rolled, over and over again, stirring up snow as they both battled for the upper hand. Bucky had always been stronger; more brutal and ruthless in his fighting style, but Rumlow wasn’t sick. Wasn’t drawn and haggard with limbs that felt breakable like frozen twigs. Wasn’t dosed up on medicine that induced sleep and sluggishness. 

Bucky landed a blow to Rumlow’s face, splitting his lip and a shower of blood splattered across the white ground. It was warm on Bucky’s face, sticky and wet and clinging to his eyelashes. Rumlow returned in kind, his fist tearing a burning line across Bucky’s cheek all the way up to his right eye. Bucky used fingers and nails, scratching and gouging at Rumlow’s face and eyes. _Don’t be afraid to get eye juice under your nails, Soldat_. Rumlow snapped his jaws and pushed, more like a wild beast than a man. 

Bucky let his instincts take over. Fight with what he had and survive. That was all that was in his mind. It clouded his judgement, blurred the lines of right and wrong and created a hazy redness that could only exist between morality and dissipation. 

Kill or be killed. 

Drawing it back in his throat, Bucky spat up into the other man’s face, his mind well aware of the implications and his heart not giving a damn. 

They both paused, Rumlow’s face breaking in anger and Bucky’s in disbelief. He had killed in the name of war, peppered armies with bullets and slit throats in the dead of night. He had spied and hunted, planned and executed; ruined lives and families with the toss of a grenade, but never had he so willingly sentenced someone to die. 

Maybe it would mean nothing, perhaps it would result in nothing — Steve had kissed him countless times since Bucky had become sick — but Bucky hoped, _fucking hoped_ , that the infection would worm its way into Rumlow’s system as blood soak saliva dripped from his face. It dribbled down Rumlow’s nose, over his mouth and covered his bleeding lip before dripping back down on Bucky. Bucky didn’t care — it wasn’t going to hurt him — but Rumlow cared. 

Rumlow let out an inhuman growl and shoved against Bucky, driving his head into the forest floor. 

With an onslaught of desperate strength, Bucky hooked his fingers in Rumlow’s mouth and yanked, tearing skin and shredding Rumlow’s cheek. Blood gushed, and Bucky gagged, spitting it from his mouth and using the ball of his palm to smash Rumlow’s jaw upwards. The older man’s head cracked backwards, his eyes rolling backwards as Bucky pushed. Bucky drew a leg up, wedged it between them and kicked. It caught Rumlow square in the ribs, flipping him back a full one-eighty and Bucky took the opportunity for what it was. 

He moved. 

As much as he hated it, he was no match for the other man. Not now. There would have been a day when Rumlow couldn’t have laid a blow on him, but now, Bucky was strong enough to admit his own weaknesses. 

Crawling through the snow, Bucky heaved in deep breaths between coughs, his hands and knees sinking in the white powder. He tripped and stumbled, arms being swallowed to their elbows in the icy drifts. He pulled himself to his feet only to hit a rut in the ground and lose his footing, his hands catching him as wetness seeped into his clothing. Gasping and groaning, Bucky scuttled across the muddy forest floor, his shoulder brushing against the trunk of a tree. He tried to steady himself as he coughed. Pink mist sprayed out in front of him, staining the peeling bark of the tree he used to haul himself upwards again. 

Too slow. 

Rumlow grabbed at his ankle and wrenched him back down to the ground. 

Bucky’s hands clambered for leverage, his gloves tearing with splinters. He landed with a huff, the air knocked clean out of his already struggling lungs. His chin smashed into the ground, the snow doing little to buffer the rattling shock and his gums throbbed in pain as his teeth slammed together. 

The battle was lost; Bucky knew it. Reeling from the blow to the head and his inability to breathe, there was nothing he could do to stop Rumlow knotting his fist into the back of his hair. The other man used the grip to slam Bucky’s head down. Once, twice and then a third time and Bucky was seeing stars. Something warm was melting the snow around his head, clouding his vision red every time Rumlow pulled him back. 

“…Fucking kill you before you kill me,” Rumlow snapped, the start of his threat lost in an inhuman growl. He was on Bucky now, his legs straddling Bucky’s back to keep him in place, and Bucky could feel the crushing weight of him pressing in against his straining lungs. “Before you kill us all.”

Bucky’s hands scrambled through the snow, desperate to find anything to get a hold of, anything that could offer aid. A rock, a branch, anything other than frozen water that melted at his touch. 

Nothing. Bucky’s palms ached, the splinters pushing in as the damp ground washed away the blood. 

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. 

Rumlow’s hand tightened in his hair, and Bucky’s vision was blurred by snow. It stung, his face buried in the frozen earth as Rumlow pushed him forward. Water, dirt, mud; Bucky could taste it all as he struggled to breathe. It invaded his mouth and nose, stung his eyes and still, Rumlow kept pushing downwards, determined to suffocate him in the icy drifts. 

“Feel good?” Rumlow taunted. His voice was muffled as Bucky struggled. Rumlow used Bucky’s hair to jerk him back up, and Bucky rasped. The other man’s voice was right beside his ear, breath hot and sticky and stinking of malnutrition and blood. His lips brushed against Bucky’s throat. “Is this what you let Steve do?” Rumlow hissed; he smashed Bucky’s head down again then yanked his head back painfully. Bucky’s world blurred, white and red, light and dark and he knew — just knew right down in his bones — that he was fucked and that it wasn’t going to be quick. Of course, it wouldn’t. Rumlow would drag this out. It was his way. Always too violent and needlessly cruel; sadistic and narcissistic to boot. 

A wet tongue licked across his ear, the action a perverse mockery of affection and then Bucky’s head collided with the frozen earth once again. This time Rumlow kept him there, his fist wrenching; tearing at Bucky’s hair. 

“Do you have him press your head into the pillow while he fucks you? Is that why he sent us all to die at the hands of our allies? Why he keeps you around to spread your sickness ‘cause you spread your legs?”

Blackness hung heavily around the outskirts of Bucky’s vision as he gasped. He couldn’t cough, couldn’t dislodge the building need to clear his lungs of fluid, especially when Rumlow used an elbow across his back to keep him pinned and still, pressed down to die and suffocate in the snow. 

Black. White. Grey and red. The world wasn’t there anymore; it was just Bucky free falling in a haze of his own mortality. The lives he’d taken and the choices he’d made. Karpov screaming in his ear and Steve’s hands on his skin. Judgement and a scale so weighted that Bucky was set to burn. 

He’d known he’d die sooner or later. The war would take him. A bullet or a grenade; that was what Bucky had always prepared for. With sickness coursing through his veins, he’d realigned his thoughts; prepared for something else. A slower way to go. Wasting away until there was nothing left. 

Never had he thought he’d die outside of camp, murdered by a man that shouldn’t have been able to lift a hand to him. 

Karpov would be so disappointed. 

But then the pressure was gone, and Rumlow was a heavy weight on his back. Bucky couldn’t focus, couldn’t work out what had made the other man release his grip on his hair. 

Gasping a mouthful of mud, Bucky squirmed. There was no resistance, no forthcoming blow to stop him from moving and Bucky was left confused. Pulling his face from the snow, he felt a new drop of warmth trickle from his forehead; he ignored it and strained his neck to see over his shoulder. He almost flinched when he saw Rumlow’s blank eyes staring straight back at him. 

Bucky panicked, even more so now than when he was sure he was going to die. Rumlow was a dead weight, nothing more, and yet Bucky couldn’t get him away, couldn’t find the strength to push back or squirm his way out from under the tangle of lifeless limbs. 

As if someone was reading his mind, that weight started to shift. Not with life, but with the sickening feeling of death being dragged away to be forsaken. It lifted from Bucky’s head and shoulders first, hauled down his back and then rolled off his side completely. Bucky felt relief; felt like he could move and breathe again even if his body refused to do either. 

There was a grunt, a sickly thud and a slight sob and Bucky finally found the last remnants of strength. Rolling to his side and then flopping onto his back, he stared at the sun that filtered through the trees and wondered why the light didn’t blind him. Shadows moved, steps cracked branches and ice rustled. Bucky lolled his head to the side to look at what could just have easily been death and not salvation. 

At what he saw he raised one split and bruised, bloodied eyebrow and let out a shaking sob of relief. 

Wanda stood there, eyes wide, chest racing with breath and a bloody rock in her hand. Rumlow’s body was at her feet, the man twitching slightly with life and yet looking for all the world to be dead. The girl muttered something, but Bucky couldn’t understand a thing. 

Bucky groaned and slumped back against the frozen earth, his eyes rolling heavenwards as blood dripped languidly down his chin. His chest heaved as he tried to breathe. 

And then the tightness came. That burning fire in the pit of Bucky’s stomach and that uneasy feeling in the back of his throat. It started with a wheeze, a gasp that rattled and then Bucky was coughing. His body shook, his chest constricting as phlegm and blood forced its way up this throat. He couldn’t think, couldn’t function or move. He twisted against his will, his arms flicking back and forth as he struggled for air around the hacking coughs. 

Bucky knew he needed to get onto his side, he knew that he had to roll over or die from his own saliva and blood, but for the fucking life of him, he couldn’t move. Everything hurt, his body, already so weakened, was like jelly. No longer his own to control. 

Through slitted eyes, Bucky saw Wanda kneel beside him, her thin hands on his shoulder. She pushed and pulled, grunting with effort as she rolled him onto his side away from her. Bucky saw Rumlow’s face, contorted in pain and his eyes open yet unseeing. 

Bucky coughed again, and this time he couldn’t hold it in. Blood splashed across the snow, the warm mix of crimson and spittle hissing as it hit the cold earth. It sank like heated rocks, melting the stark white and turning the ground into pink slush. It stained Rumlow’s face, falling like rain across pale features and blurring the lines between Bucky and Rumlow’s own pain. Bucky saw it all through the eyes of someone morbidly fascinated and then coughed again, adding to the effect. 

Wanda hissed something that Bucky was too far gone to hear, her hand pushing bloodied strands of hair out of Bucky’s face and Bucky could feel her thumping at his back, much like a mother would do for a feverish child. 

It didn’t help, at least not in the gentle way intended. Bucky felt his lungs burn, felt that sinking illness in his stomach and coughed again. 

Part of his mind was clear enough to think of the sight. It had to be something out of a horror story, blood spraying across white snow while he twisted and twitched, struggled for breath and turned red with the physical exertion. Like a vampire, or a demon vomiting forth hell into the world. 

He rasped and gagged, sometimes struggling to keep himself from coughing and other times desperate to dislodge the sickness that clogged the back of his throat. He couldn’t control his limbs, couldn’t stop the way his arms seized and trembled, scratching at the ground and then at himself to try and make his body stop retching. Fingers carved claw marks through reddened snow, digging till his gloves were shredded and then hugged at his middle, trying to push his ribs against his lungs just to make the pain stop. 

Wanda ran; that was the last thing Bucky saw as he gave up the fight for consciousness. 

He woke to movement, to patting and a burn on his cheek. He woke to the sound of Steve’s voice, fearful and panicked and something warm falling to cover him. Struggling to pull his eyes open, Bucky squinted into the white glow of a sunny winter day and made out Steve’s shape bending over him. Wanda was behind him, her small face pale and her dark eyes wide as she watched. 

Bucky couldn’t bring himself to protest when Steve picked him up. Snow fell from his clothes, his wet back instantly freezing in the cold air and against his better judgement, Bucky pushed his face into Steve’s neck, searching for warmth. Steve hefted him upwards, balancing Bucky’s weight before stalking off across the snow, his strides long and desperate and pointed towards their base camp. Wanda followed, silent as the grave. 

Steve and Wanda left Rumlow to the perils of winter exposure. 

*****

Rumlow stumbled back to camp in the early hours of the morning. Bucky had seen him from his window. The elements and wolves had let him be, and Bucky couldn’t help but wonder if that was a sign. Maybe Rumlow was right, maybe Bucky’s hand had been driven by justice and righteousness. Favoured by the gods for his attempt at eliminating the fiend that lived among them. 

Or maybe he was spared through divine intervention. A clear-cut sign that Bucky had been wrong.

*****

Two days later, when Rumlow coughed and spat, blood colouring the snow, no one said a thing, but Bucky shuddered knowingly. 

And in the flickering light of the fire, Bucky thought he saw the traces of a smile on Steve’s lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that was the clash we've all been waiting for. It's been brewing since waaaay back in the first chapters, and the tension has been steadily growing. I will say, it was odd to write a Bucky that was... at such a disadvantage. I mean, my Bucky is always fucking badass, so having him so weak (justifiably so) was quite challenging. 
> 
> I was actually shocked that no one sided with Steve last chapter! Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think he did the right thing at all, but I can see how and why he made that choice (obviously; I wrote it). Normally though, there’s always someone who’ll go for that ‘true love; ride or die’ romantic side of questionable choices. 
> 
> It was refreshing to see that everyone knew that what he’d done was inherently wrong, and that it would have deep, nasty consequences. 
> 
> Such as the happenings of this chapter. 
> 
> We’re cruising right up to the end here, folks, so hold on to your hats!


	13. Part XIII - I’ve got a head full of choice; each door the same direction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a really short chapter (by my usual standards) but there was just no helping it. It ruined the flow if I tried to tag it onto the last, or into the next, and there was no point in waffling on just to up the word count. But anyway. It might not be long, but it’s getting deep, so its probably a blessing that it's nice and brief.

**Part XIII**

_I’ve got a head full of choice; each door the same direction_

Bucky wasn’t beautiful anymore. There was nothing angelic about him, nothing ethereal and endearingly delicate. Even Steve couldn’t find beauty in that warped reality. 

Pale and drawn, he had dark circles under his eyes and coughed more than he breathed. His cheeks were still red and his lips still the colour of blood, but now it was harder to tell if it was from a natural flush or the residue of a muffled cough.

Bucky went through his days, some where he would gather his furs and jackets and walk through the snow, his hands reaching out to touch everything the world had to offer as if for the last time. Falling snow, trees and buildings; the roughness of canvas tents and the smooth, cold metal of the sniper he could no longer hold. He hardly ever spoke, not to any of the others, not to Wanda and only the barest of needed words to Steve. _Ghost_ , they had once called him, and now that term seemed as if it had been created to describe Bucky. 

Sometimes, in the darkness of night when Steve’s mind was sure it was about to explode, he wondered if he and his men had created the ghostly figure in his arms. If their actions and their words had hollowed out Bucky till the sickness had to creep in and fill that void. They’d taken him and his skills for granted; used him up until there was nothing left. 

It was always worse on the other days—the ones where Bucky would be bedridden. Unable to stand or sit, he’d simply lay there, his eyes staring at nothing or squeezed tightly closed in pain. On those days he needed Steve as much as he needed air. He couldn’t still his hand to drink, and even if he could, his grip was like that of a child. The weight from the mug of water would wear him down, making the effort needed for hydration outweigh the benefits. 

Steve had to feed him his medicine, his mind always reminiscent of the threat he’d used to make Bucky take it in the first place. 

On those days Bucky ate nothing. On the days he would walk and force a smile, ruffling Wanda’s hair and sitting in silence with Peter he would be able to pick at rations. But it wasn’t enough to sustain him. Weight fell from his bones like winter snow from branches and where once he had muscle and definition, all Steve could see was bone and malnourishment. 

Steve was worried; there was no way he couldn’t be. He upped the dose of Bucky’s medication, yet even that was starting to run short. A week, maybe two, and they would have none left at this rate. 

So Steve spent every second he could with Bucky in his arms, curled up in bed with Bucky’s head under his chin. He pulled him close, kept their chests and their hearts together, stilling Bucky’s erratic pulse with his own. He ran out of words to say, of things to whisper, so he merely made noises, soft cooing sounds to soothe the sick man and lull him into sleep. 

Bucky’s fingers would curl in the folds of Steve’s uniform, clinging like a child as his body rattled and his chest heaved, and Steve would kiss him until even he was breathless. 

Still, Steve hadn’t so much as coughed. 

And when Bucky was asleep and calm, Steve would cry. He’d cry for his lover, cry for the both of them and the thought of being left behind. He would cry for their cause, so long forgotten and those that they had lost along the way. He would cry for home and the plans they had once made, for the idealistic visions they had had of returning victorious and as heroes. They were going to liberate the known world, save the day and spend the rest of their lives drinking and laughing and carefree. Win glory and renown in battle, be decorated with medals and positions of rank. 

They had planned to be everything that they never could be. 

*****

The funeral was two weeks later. Amid the snow and the rain, they dug through the slush with blunt shovels and quiet struggles. No one spoke, no one made eye contact. They were as good as strangers in the night. Peter was silent, his head down and his shoulders heaving as he flicked dirt out of the grave. Morita let out a grunt as he hit a rock but nothing else. 

Steve had insisted that he had to be buried, and so they dug, nature working against them. Snow fell, the hole steadily turning white even as they shovelled further. They went deeper; deeper than need be, to the point where it seemed as if they would dig their way to the other side of the world. Maybe they’d been hoping for that; a way out. 

Peter had to accept Morita’s hand just to be able to scramble out of the grave. 

Bucky stood on the sidelines, leaning against a tree. He hoped he looked casual and calm, silent and stoic and not at all like he needed the tree just to remain standing. His knees were shaking, but he had told Steve that he would be fine. It was a good day, he had said, one where he wanted to be out in the open air and take in the world for all its glories. 

The men dug the grave and Bucky heard the sound of a foot sink in the snow. At least his hearing wasn’t going; it was a small thing, but something that he was thankful for. 

He didn’t bother to look to see who it was. He already knew. Wanda came out of the woodlands like a wraith across the moors, all silent and still and eerily serene. Only her hair moved, red and mattered and filled with muck and sticks, it still somehow had the ability to blow in the wind. 

Bucky was sure that she was more woodland spirit than girl by this point. The death of Pietro had broken her; shattered the fragile trust she’d established with the dwindling numbers of the Howling Commandos. 

She’d taken to the land, blending in with the white snow in a way that would have made Karpov proud. Once, she’d taken Bucky’s hand and led him out through the drifts. Between trees and over a frozen lake, and to a shanty lean-to that she’d found on her walks. It was an old hunters hut, barely tall enough for Bucky to stand, and only just wide enough for someone small to sleep. Bucky saw the pallet bed she’d made there, and the small cooking tripod she’d fashioned, and he knew. 

Wanda was breaking away and learning to survive on her own again, and Bucky? Well, he’d sighed and been thankful. She’d grown up in weather like this — they both had — and out of all of them, she had the best chance of survival. Bucky wasn’t sure what day it was, or what month, but he was sure that winter had to come to an end eventually, and he was glad that Wanda was finding her own way. 

She’d be better off without them. 

Sometimes Bucky would spot her with Peter, walking on patrol with him, and Bucky would glimpse that pistol he’d given her handing at her side. It was surprising that she hadn’t used it on Rumlow that day everything had fallen apart. But for the most part, she kept to herself, returning with harvested winter fruits and all but trading for meat. Bucky had seen Steve give her two rabbits one day and Bucky knew that Wanda had found that sweet spot between self-sufficient and praying on the softness of Steve’s heart. 

Again, Bucky was sure that Karpov would have adored her. Hell, he probably would have replaced Bucky with her as his favourite golden child. 

Today though, she stood by Bucky’s side, as silent and motionless as him as her eyes followed the possession. 

They carried Rumlow’s body on a stretcher of wood covered with the rotting canvas of an old tent. White camouflage and Bucky almost thought it ironic. 

As if in accord, Wanda’s hand reached out and closed around Bucky’s. 

Steve was watching him out of the corner of his eye as they laid Rumlow to rest and Bucky wondered if Steve thought he was being subtle. Was he waiting for Bucky to fall, or put them both out of their misery and follow in Rumlow’s footsteps? Was Steve silently hoping for that even as he held Bucky at night and rubbed warmth into his back? Bucky couldn’t tell, and it gnawed at his mind, threatening to turn his brain to mush. 

Bucky could see himself in that grave; see his own face sunken and drawn, his body stiff like ice. That would be him one day; one day soon. In fact, that should have been him now. Rumlow had lasted two weeks; Bucky was on his third month. 

But it wasn’t the sickness that took Rumlow. It chipped away at his system, slowing him down and turning him weak. His skin faded quicker than Bucky’s, his eyes sinking into the skin that hung limply from his face. Even his hair started to fall; something that was yet to happen to Bucky. 

Tuberculosis took Rumlow quickly, ruining his mind and destroying his body and Bucky had kept his silence, his suspicions locked further away with each day that Rumlow diminished. 

Yet when they’d found Rumlow dead in the snow, no one had asked questions. 

It had been one of Bucky’s good days; he was walking on his own, taking in the way the ice crystals clung to the trees. Winter would break soon. Not that it would help. After that came the slush, the rain and the mud, the fluctuating temperatures that were impossible to foresee. The end of winter wasn’t joyous in these parts; it just brought a whole different set of struggles. 

He’d been lost in his thoughts of melting snow and dripping ice when he had heard the shout. Peter had been the one to find Rumlow, his perimeter scouting taking him out past the line of trees. Bucky couldn’t run, but he had moved, quicker than he thought possible, his hands grazing trees as he struggled for support. He heard his own footsteps, but his mind was too lost in the echo of the shout to care for stealth. Bucky had nothing but his knives on him, black and cold and untouched for months; weapons he was no longer fit to wield. 

He found them, panting and out of breath, and Peter was white as a ghost. Steve was there, his eyes cold and impassive, and slowly, the rest came. Morita with his slow shuffle, Wanda light on her feet and Dum Dum not far behind. 

As one, they had stood and stared, no one saying a word as reality crashed down around them. 

Rumlow was there, face down and limbs spread. The snow around him was pink and red, melted and slushy. But it wasn’t all from coughing; not even Bucky could spit out that much blood and still keep breathing. 

The back of Rumlow’s head was concave, blood and bone and brain dripping down his hair. That was what stained the ground. 

The sickness had made him feeble, but it didn’t take him. Someone else had; someone else had prayed upon the weakness of his body and finished the job that the infection had started. 

Someone had killed him, murdered one of their own out in the destitute wastelands of the Russian winter.

The silence of the scene made the noise in Bucky's head even louder. Arguments and reasons, questions and thoughts; they raced around, shouting and screaming, and Bucky struggled to keep his mouth shut. He wanted to scream them all out, to yell accusations and questions into the night air; to break his subconscious vow of silence with a mad flurry of jumbled ideas and words. 

Murder.

That was the one thought he could focus on. Bucky didn’t know when he’d grown a conscious, or when he’d even bothered to separate what he had done to survive from what was ripping through their numbers, but even he, _the_ fabled Winter Soldier, knew the difference between murder and killing. Bucky had shot Josef through the head in training, and he’d killed countless in the name of his mission, but even he hadn’t sunk as low as cold-blooded murder. 

Bucky’s mind had threatened to explode with the implications. 

Rumlow falling slack and Wanda with a bloody stone in her hand; Steve, with a smile across his lips as Rumlow had coughed blood; Peter’s attachment to Wanda and his blind sense of justice. 

Bucky stood no chance of knowing who had done what. 

The warm hand in his own; the worried glance shot his way from across the field; the man who’d found the body.

Murderer. One of them; someone. 

All of them. 

Shaking and stilling a cough as Peter started shovelling snow in on Rumlow’s body, Bucky knew one thing. 

He was losing his goddamn mind. 

As if in response, Bucky’s face screwed up in pain; it stabbed through his head, right in behind his eye. Bucky used his free hand to press in at his temple, rubbing at the skin as if trying to massage sanity back into his brain. So loud, the snow was so bright; he couldn’t concentrate. 

Steve was at his side in an instant, saying something hushed to Wanda. She dropped Bucky’s hand, and Bucky was too confused as Steve pulled him flush to his side, his arm wrapped around Bucky’s waist. But was it the arm that killed Rumlow? The hand that had beaten Rumlow’s head to a pulp, striking again and again until all that remained was brain matter scattered across the snow? 

Bucky thought he was going to be sick; Steve stood as quiet and still as the grave they laid Rumlow to rest in. 

Bucky wanted to push Steve away, wanted to tear himself backwards and turn accusing eyes onto the one person he had always trusted. He wanted to ask – wanted to _demand_ – if Steve had done it. How could the other man live with himself? How could he defend that in the sea of all his other justified shortcomings? Had this, too, been done for Bucky? Was Rumlow’s death another way that Steve had provided for him?

Instead, Bucky stood there, silent and pale and shaking with the weakness and twisted need that kept him bound to Steve’s side and the love that Bucky had been sure he’d never feel, let alone receive. 

Had Rumlow been killed for him? Was that how the murderer slept at night, knowing that they had finished the job Bucky had started out in the snow. 

Or was it retribution for Petrio? An eye for an eye; justice delivered with the swift hand of an executioner. 

Bucky was just as much to blame, he knew that. He had started it, offered Rumlow the one thing he never wanted, driving him to the state where he could be bested and taken into death. 

In his own way, Bucky had come to terms with the fact that _he_ had killed Rumlow, even while the other man was alive and coughing and sullen. It had been Bucky’s sickness, his disease and his conscious decision to condemn. To save himself. He told himself it was karma, an eye for an eye and a life for a life. Rumlow had killed Pietro, so Bucky had returned in kind. That was something he could bear, something that was Bucky’s and Bucky’s alone to take with him to the grave. Just another smear of sin across his already marred life. 

What he couldn’t deal with was the fact that it made Bucky feel like a hypocrite, standing there and shaking at Steve’s touch. The idea of another murderer, of someone else, lost in the eerie winter glow, striking out and claiming lives made Bucky queasy. The idea that it might have been Steve made him want to vomit. 

“Come on, Bucky,” Steve urged, the words whispered against his ear. Kind. Caring. “We need to get you inside. You’re freezing.”

Bucky blinked, the words registering and yet making no sense. 

Steve was starting to treat him like a porcelain doll, all gentle touches and cooing words. Bucky knew that Steve talked to him while he was asleep — while he was pretending to sleep — but now that was starting to spill over into the daylight as well. He would mutter quietly, words meaning nothing as hands rubbed and stroked, pressed in and held Bucky tightly. 

There was nothing Bucky could do about it. He knew it stemmed from Steve’s constant worry, but he never took Bucky’s claims to health seriously. In a way, Bucky couldn’t blame him. He had seen himself, felt his body wasting away, and every day he noticed how his clothes hung that little looser around his shoulders. There was no way he could convince Steve he was fine when he so clearly wasn’t. 

Still, it drove Bucky to the point of insanity at times. Steve spent so much time fussing and worrying, almost as much time in bed as Bucky did and no amount of reasoning, threatening or arguing would convince the Captain to do otherwise. He should be with what was left of his men, Bucky had told him, be out there and watching. Taking note and care of Rumlow just as much as Steve did Bucky. He should be watching over Wanda, not leaving her to Dum Dum and Peter and Morita. 

Steve never listened, never left his side and never took his eyes off the others when they came near Bucky. He was spooked, Bucky knew that. 

After the fight with Rumlow, Steve hadn’t been the same. He judged everyone harshly, kept them at arm’s length and well away from Bucky. It was as if he was scared that one of them would finish Bucky in the way someone would eventually take out Rumlow. 

Bucky had lost the will to keep fighting over it. He was too tired, his mind too hazy to try and beat the other man’s reasoning and justification for constantly staying by his side. So when Steve said they had to return to the cabin, Bucky had nodded through coughs and let the other man hook Bucky’s arm over his shoulder and all but carry him towards their small little home. 

That night Steve turned him over, hands gentle but instant as they pulled on zippers and flicked open buttons. Bucky let him, silent as always and eyes staring ahead. He craved the intimacy and the feeling of his lover against him. It grounded Bucky and made him feel alive even as he faded away. 

His hands twisted into the sheets as Steve pulled his hips up and against him, rocking their bodies together gently. As Steve finally pushed himself inside, Bucky’s eyes squeezed closed, and his head dropped towards the pillows with a pleased moan. 

Rumlow’s last words to him echoed in his mind. 

Steve came; first, his body shuddering and his teeth biting into the back of Bucky’s neck. His hand kept pumping, stroking as he breathed into Bucky’s ear, whispering words of release and encouragement and love. 

It was all Bucky could do to wipe the blood from his chin and swallow down the rattle forming in his chest. 

Bucky loved Steve — more than life itself — but he hated what they’d become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are we all going? Have your emotional support pillows and plushies (or pets, if you have one) been getting lots of snuggles? 
> 
> Anyway. Final chapter will be up next week. I’m sure by now you’re all well and truly adjusted to the knowledge that it’s not going to be a happy ending. 
> 
> On a much happier note! I’m sure most of you have see ‘[My fuckbuddy is nice to my cat…](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27075838)’ by now, but (and this is hot off the press) it has been turned into a fic series! Yes, that’s right. There is more coming. 
> 
> When? 
> 
> This weekend!! 
> 
> Keep an eye out for ‘ _My fuckbuddy is Captain America and other reality-shattering revelations (that keep Bucky up at night)_ ’ coming to Ao3 this weekend. Alternately, you can bookmark or subscribe to the newly created ‘[My Fuckbuddy is…](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2009812)’ series so that you get notifications and stuff (and god, I sound like a Youtuber. Lol! ‘Hit that bell to turn notifications on, so you always know when we update!’)
> 
> The second instalment will give some nice funny feels between these dark chapters, as well as some legit porn. Yes. OMG. I wrote porn ~~and it’s a fucking train wreck~~ Lol. 
> 
> Until next week, stay sane and safe and, as always, I really do love hearing from you!


	14. Part XIV - And burn my shadow away; oh, how I loved you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we find ourselves, at the end of all things. [Do you have the chills yet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gM1E1NfArKc)?
> 
> Also (and this totally kills the effectiveness of that short, simple intro), I’m using it to cross off another bingo square! 
> 
> **Title:** The Red Divide  
>  **Square Filled:** C2  
>  **Author:** Minka  
>  **Pairing:** Steve/Bucky  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Warnings:** Graphic Violence, Character Death.  
>  **Summary:** _USSR, 1941; Soviet and German troops clash as the Axis powers push to conquer Moscow._
> 
> When an elite member of the Red Army’s 181st Special Reconnaissance Detachment finds himself tasked with the survival of a group of American Commandos, he quickly realizes it’s not just the Germans he needs to protect them from. 
> 
> With the harsh Soviet winter settling in and supplies dwindling, the bone-numbing cold brings to life a new series of threats, none of which can be eliminated with a bullet.

**Part XIV**

_And burn my shadow away; oh, how I loved you_

They had come in the early hours of the morning, when each and every one of the Howling Commandos was at their weakest. 

Time had worn them down, lulled them into a sense of security that came from weeks — _months_ — without outside contact. 

So when the rattle of a tank had shaken the night, and a shell had blown the store hut to smithereens, they all knew that the end was here. 

*****

Bucky woke to Steve shaking him. There was insistence in his voice; a tremble that Bucky had never heard before. Or, at least, not since the days of Gabe gasping his pain out into the night. 

Steve was scared. Terrified; and Bucky wasn’t awake enough to understand why. It felt like the ground was moving, trembling and rocking the bed in a way that twisted Bucky’s stomach. He imagined this was what being seasick would have felt like. 

Gone were the days of Bucky waking at a hundred and ten per cent. He was no longer a soldier; no longer worthy of the Spetsnaz and the elite 181st Division. Bucky should have been up and at the ready long before Steve was even near enough to shake him. 

Now he was sluggish and confused, weighted down with coughs and a shaking hand that reached for the medicine he’d spent so long detesting. 

Steve was blurry at his side, shifting around with a frantic lack of control. The bottle was pushed into Bucky’s hand and, as it seemed, a moment later, Steve was on the other side of the room. 

Once Bucky had swallowed the liquid down and let the thick, syrupy substance coat the back of his throat and soothe his cough, he was able to focus more on the world around him. Steve really was in a flap. The commander was yanking things from tables and pulling spare blankets from the chair and stuffing them haphazardly into a pack. 

Bucky’s eyes narrowed as he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

“You have to go,” Steve was saying, and Bucky was only just starting to clue onto the situation.

Steve was a blur of dark and blonde across the gloomy little hut, and when he’d once been packing a bag, he was now pulling and guiding Bucky to his feet. Bucky’s frown intensified as Steve manhandled him into a jacket before his deft fingers buttoned it up. 

“Steve?”

Steve shoved that pack at him, heavy with supplies and the clunk of bottles of medicine. 

The earth was moving. 

Steve was scared. 

Bucky’s blurry mind finally kicked into gear. The Germans were approaching. It was the only logical explanation for what was happening. 

“Not without you,” Bucky hissed with a shake of his head. He dropped the pack to the bed and instead moved towards his weapons. They’d been laid out on the table in the corner, lifeless and unused for weeks, and for the first time in a long while, Bucky’s fingers twitched with the need to touch them. 

Steve stopped him, pulling him up short and holding both Bucky’s shoulders with his hands. 

“You have to,” Steve said. Bucky had never noticed how blue Steve’s eyes were before. Steve had blue eyes — everyone knew that — but with Steve so close and staring unblinkingly at him, Bucky was stuck by the colour. “Get into the woods and hide. Lay low. Make a run when you can.”

Damn them all to hell, but Bucky loved the man. Steve was a lot of things; stupid and reckless and stubborn and dangerously arrogant, but he was also so much more. So many better things that Bucky often forgot. Devoted and selfless, and frequently blindingly optimistic. Like now. Now Steve was all of those traits rolled into one blue-eyed package. 

“Why?” Bucky sighed. He stopped struggling against the hold and simply looked at Steve. 

Steve didn’t seem to have an answer. His mouth moved up and down a few times in an attempt to form words, but no sound came out. Bucky took that for the opportunity that it was.

“So I can die out there alone?” he answered for Steve. “Fuck that.” 

“Bucky.” The way Steve sighed his name was all the clarification that Bucky needed to know his assumption had been correct. Surely even Steve couldn’t be naive enough to believe there was much chance of survival out there alone. 

“Steve. I won’t survive out there.” There was nothing like the taste of a bitter, harsh truth; it sat heavily on the back of Bucky’s tongue. “You should go. Lead the others out. I’ll buy you time and-”

“No.” Steve’s response was abrupt and coarse, slicing through Bucky’s words like a knife and pulling him up short. 

Bucky huffed. Didn’t Steve know that time was of the essence? Bucky could hear the Germany approach now. The rattle of artillery and the rhythmic stomp of infantry through the snow and mud. 

“No,” the American repeated, this time softer. More acquiescent. 

“It’s the end of the line, Steve,” Bucky sighed. He couldn’t tell his own thoughts apart anymore; maybe the words were a resigned sigh, or a doomed soothsayer prophecy. 

Steve kissed him in a way that silenced both battling sides of Bucky’s psyche. 

“And I’m here with you,” Steve replied. “Together?” 

“Together.” 

There was a split second. A fragment of time between them; a look, a half-smile and a shared understanding of what was to come. And then the world fell apart. The rattle of heavy artillery paused long enough to herald the whistle of a shell passing through the air. Time lingered and stopped, ebbed and flowed and then reality hit home with the sound of an explosion. Bucky wasn't sure where they were aiming, but the sound of tortured timber echoed in the wake of the blast. 

It was the final nail in the coffin that the world had been building. While it had never occurred to either of the soldiers that the approach might be friendly, the instantaneous attack spoken volumes. No Soviets would fire upon a comrade cabin that showed signs of life. 

“Shit!” Bucky heard Steve swear, but instincts had him already moving. He landed on the floor in a half-crouch, his left knee down and his right arm stretched out to support himself. 

“We’ve gotta move,” Bucky hissed. The words caught at the back of his throat, threatening a cough that he stifled down with a deep swallow and sheer stubborn resolve. 

Steve was right beside him, nodding as he began to crawl towards the back door of the cabin. It was the right thing to do. Tactically, it was sound. Stay low, move quietly; head down and rifle slung over the back, forever at the ready. 

It was too slow though, and for once there was no need for stealth. Bucky realised that seconds before Steve did, and while Bucky was sluggish and plagued with heavy limbs, he was up with a creak of the knees and grabbing at the back of Steve’s shirt. He pulled and pushed and hunched over. The escape from the cabin they’d called home had them bursting out into the freezing air just in time. Hitting the snow and cold at an almost breakneck speed, it was about as much of a shock to the senses and wake up call as one could ask for. 

It was a yell that came first, followed by a shouted order, and then bullets ripped the cabin apart. Wood splintered and the glass shattered. Bucky imagined that chair he’d loved to hate and hated to love being torn to pieces; bullets filling the bed that they’d shared for so long. 

In their mad scramble, Steve took himself out on a section of ice, his body folding and his arms flailing wide as he fought to keep his balance. Nothing worked, but at least Bucky knew to step around the side as Steve dove face-first into the powdery white snow. 

“Up,” Bucky instructed. He pawed at the back of Steve’s collar, half yanking, half dragging him to his feet. “No time.” 

Steve grumbled something incoherent, but the tone was enough to make Bucky grin as they struggled forward. A cursory glance suggested that the first shell blast had gone wide, hitting more tree and catching the storehouse in the radius. It was a dark blow to their supplies, but, Bucky reasoned, better the food be destroyed then filling the bellies of the invaders.

Together they moved around the old buildings, skirting into where the others would have been bunkered down in the old barn. 

Bucky found his mind splitting in two again. It would have been so easy for the two of them to take off; to grab that pack and run together. They would have stood a much better chance of survival as a pair. Crouched low and moving fast, Bucky’s eyes glanced towards the black-wooded forest, and for just the briefest of moments, he felt a longing prang in his heart. Him and Steve. Together until the end. Somewhere warm and small and theirs; somewhere by the sea and away from all this. No longer fighting, no more killing. 

It was beautiful, and if Bucky really tried, he genuinely believed he’d be able to smell the salt of the sea and the warm scent of long grass on the sand dunes. 

That was where his mind fractured and splintered. Because it wasn’t just about him and Steve. It never had been. There was Dum Dum and Morita, and Peter, still. And Wanda. So many pieces and parts, making up the idea of a family that Bucky had never had. He shouldn’t feel this way – he knew that – and he could practically hear Karpov hissing and snarling and screaming in the back of his head. A Winter Soldier didn’t feel. A Winter Soldier wouldn’t still be here. 

A Winter Soldier would leave them all to die, and a Winter Soldier would save themselves. Fight on another day in the name of the Socialist Republic and Stalin. 

It was that moment that Bucky realised he’d become something – _someone_ – else entirely. Once he’d been a street rat with a wavering moral compass, but Karpov had taken that and broken him down. Stripped Bucky of everything he’d had and moulded him into something else, patching him up with glue, like Bucky had been a shattered vase. 

But then there had been Steve. Steve, who had moved with him, fluid and relentless like a river, gently eroding away that training while filling all the gaps that Bucky could never patch. Steve, who had reminded him what it was to feel and to think for himself; in a way that wasn’t based on tactical manoeuvres and strategic certainty. 

Boots kicking up snow, they moved past the open forest, and instead of bolting with the drive of self-preservation, they found the closest thing to a family that Bucky had ever known. 

Dum Dum was red in the face as he hastily fed bullets into a detached magazine. Morita looked tired and still slightly confused, but his hands were steady, and his feet spread wide as he peered down the scope of his rifle, his stomach pressed into the snow. 

Steve skidded to a stop next to them and Bucky, despite the niggling urgency of them not all being together – they were too easy a target that way – bunkered down next to him. 

“You know,” Dum Dum muttered. “I really didn’t see it coming to this.”

“That’s because you’re stupid,” Morita jibbed playfully. 

“Can you two just shut the fuck up?” It would have been a harsh snap of an order blended with an insult if the words hadn’t come paired with a grin. Bucky blamed the cold, and the endless struggle and the pointless idea of survival in conditions made to destroy. And the thrill. God only knew that it was about the racing of his heart and the pumping of his blood and the flush of adrenaline that was hammering through his system. It all combined to help remind Bucky that he was alive. 

The snark was just an added bonus. 

Or, he thought darkly, maybe he’d lost his mind after all. 

Dum Dum chuckled while slotting the magazine into his semi-auto and rolling over to watch the Germans.

“Where’s Peter?” Steve asked. 

“Playing hero,” Dum Dum rumbled, the sound deep in his throat as he made himself comfortable and raised his gun. 

“Getting Wanda out of here,” Morita added. His explanation was a lot more useful and made a lot more sense. Bucky only hoped that Peter did what Bucky’s training demanded; that he take Wanda and run and never look back. 

“We need to split up,” Bucky finally gave into that gnawing whisper of reason still left floating in his mind.

Right now, all it would take was a single blast from the tank or a well-aimed grenade, and the fight would be over. The former would end it all, killing them fast and Bucky honestly prayed for that sort of ending, but the latter would only incapacitate and maim, and leave them at the mercy of their enemies. 

Once, someone had made a big deal by saying ‘united we stand; divided we fall’ and that was all well and good in stupid endeavours like this politics or large scale military manoeuvres, but it was pure folly for a situation like this. While they may have been united, they stood more chance operating as a segregated, well-honed team. 

“I’ll circle behind,” Bucky offered. Even sick, he was still the best chance they had for creating chaos and confusion in the German ranks. He could do a lot of damage if he could flank them without being detected. 

Steve’s hand closing around his upper arm stopped him. Bucky frowned, turning to question, only to find the answer to every doubt he’d ever had in his life. 

“I love you,” Steve all but growled. The words were as primal and territorial as his kiss was hungry and needy. His gloved hands in the back of Bucky’s hair grounded the Soviet, and gave hope to reason when there logically should have been none. 

Still, Bucky basked in it all, savouring it like the last meal of a man starved and condemned, and he kissed back with a clash of teeth and a tongue no longer shy of the sickness it carried. 

“I love you, too.” 

And with that, Bucky was gone, slipping out past the invisible perimeter that they’d set, and fading into the night like the shadow he’d once been. 

*****

Morita had been the first to fall. Cut down by a potato masher — a stielhandgranate — that would leave little for the wolves to consume. 

Bucky had heard Peter’s wails over the sound of the peppering gunfire, just as he’d seen the pink mist that Morita had become, the horrific scene accentuated with splintered wood and kicked-up snow. 

It was dark, and maybe Bucky was wrong for thinking it, but at least it was quick. Morita wouldn’t have felt a thing. 

That was more than what could be said for Dum Dum. 

Rage was a funny thing. It made fools out of the best of men and gave power to the heart while killing the mind. 

Dum Dum had never been idiotic. He was strong and solid as an ox, and blunt as an axe, but never stupid. Still, when Morita had all but ceased to exist, Dum Dum had acted, and he’d taken the emotional route. Running feet and snarled lips and the rapid-fire of his rifle wasn’t enough to save him. Not against a squadron of German guns. 

Bucky didn’t know how many bullets the other man had taken before the Germans stopped firing, but he did know that he’d flinched for each one. 

Panting and heaving, Bucky gripped his knives tightly. Gunfire rang out again to the left, bullets ripping new holes into the cabin he’d considered home. It was a short burst followed by no frivolity, so Bucky took that as a good sign. 

So many memories flashed through his mind, a kaleidoscope of hurt and pain, love and loss; the things he’d found and lost and thrown away on his own accord. The moments that had built him back up; reminded him that he breathed and that he was real and that he bled like any man. Mistakes made and orders followed blindly, spiralling right down into the pits of his marred conscience. 

Cause, effect, consequence; every cruel irony his life had given him. 

It was all there—a cacophony of chaos and a void of emptiness all at the same time. 

Bucky worried at his bottom lip, and for the first time in battle, he found the silence in his head alarming. Karpov wasn’t there. He wasn’t shouting at him to move and be strong and be better. He wasn’t calling Bucky out for all his shortcomings and weaknesses. All his faults. 

For the first time since his training, Bucky felt truly alone. 

So, Bucky closed his eyes and did what no Winter Soldier should ever do. 

He prayed for luck. 

He moved like a ghost, stalking out from the trees and towards the closest German, his footfalls silent in the early morning frost.

Gripping the soldier in his left arm, Bucky yanked him back and kicked at his ankles, throwing the man off balance. Once, Bucky would have been strong. He would have been able to heft the man clear off the ground if he’d wanted, but now he had to rely on timing and blind luck. 

The man in his arms squirmed, and Bucky sank his heels into the snow for balance. His black knife slashed, opening fatigues and skin around the neck, and instinct had Bucky letting go before the dead weight pulled him down. 

He snagged the man’s arm, stopping the fall from being loud or noticeable, and lowered the corpse into the snow. It wasn’t white anymore.

Bucky moved on, one leg crossing the other as he stalked his prey. There was a dry rumble in his throat, but he swallowed it down and tightened the grip on his knives. 

A second man fell, his cry muffled by the bulky material around Bucky’s wrist even as his knife slipped between ribs and into vital lungs. The third and fourth went down with a series of slashes, each deep enough to grate against bone and cause Bucky’s jaw to clench. 

For just a moment, he remembered how it felt to be all that he could be. Karpov had taken everything from him, and what he’d given back was a twisted, perverted reflection of Bucky’s former self. But it _was_ deadly, and it _was_ capable, and it was darkness and a willingness to kill, and with Steve's influence, it had become Bucky. The man he’d always wanted to be, and the one he’d never been until this moment. 

Yet despite that – because of that – Bucky was still lacking. He wasn’t a one-man army, and he wasn’t indestructible, and he wasn’t a vengeful ghost in the pale dawn, capable of claiming every soul that threatened to hurt the ones he loved. 

What’s more, Bucky was still _Bucky_ , and Bucky, more than anything, was sick. 

He coughed before he made it to the fifth soldier. 

Four dead and lowered to the ground: four down for the count and turning the snow to mud with the remnants of their lives. Four in a sea of many and the fifth one heard him coming. 

There weren’t many moments in Bucky’s life that he considered out of his control. Following the man in a suit into the middle of nowhere was one, and killing his first man was another. That made two. In the sea of all the moments and decisions that had led Bucky to this very moment; they were good odds. He’d chosen to fight on after the scouting mission had gone amiss, just as he’d decided to confront Brock out in the frosty wastelands. 

In a way, it only seemed fitting that the end should come from a lack of control. 

Bucky’s cough and the subsequent shock from that fifth damn man triggered a ripple of effects so far outside of Bucky’s control that he felt his world-shattering to a stop. 

It was Steve, obviously. Always Steve. _Fucking Steve_. 

Bucky coughed, and Steve yelled. Steve moved, and Steve shot, and Steve ran, and fucking Steve – fucking _Steve_ – caused the distraction that Bucky never would have needed if he wasn’t a shadow of his former self. 

And where Steve went, Peter followed, and when two Americans came screaming out of the bullet-ridden buildings and the haunting, stick-like forests, Germans fired. 

Peter fell first, but Bucky gave up when they shot Steve in the head. 

Steve had once told him that he was beautiful. Bucky had been confused by that. Beautiful was a term used for dames in red lipstick and seamed stockings, not for people like him. Not for killers in the night. 

The Captain’s explanation had been that Bucky was wild and untamed. Dark and mysterious and beautiful in the way of something otherworldly. Honestly, it had left Bucky even more confused. 

Recently, Steve had confided him in that Bucky wore his sickness well. That he was pale and hauntingly beautiful. That had made Bucky feel sick, but it had helped to clarify the questions he’d had rattling around in his head for so long. 

Steve saw him as something else. Something different and ethereal and borderline magical.

If Bucky had been any of those things, then he would have been able to save Steve. He would have been able to keep the whole lot of them alive and move them on through the frozen woods, into warm fields that lapped at the edge of a distant sea. 

If Bucky had been even half the man – abilities and perceived powers and delusions all aside – that Steve had seen, then Bucky would have been able to stop this. 

Instead, Bucky crumpled as Steve did. 

Steve went down, lifeless and eyes unseeing, and Bucky followed, breath in his throat and chest struggling for air. His knives seared the degraded purity around him, black sinking into the frozen white and seeping out the red slush of the lives Bucky had taken. 

The fifth man looked at him, wide eyes and open mouth and hands trembling while reaching for his gun. He could see how close Bucky had been; how soon an end might have come for him if his companions hadn’t taken a lucky shot. 

Before a bullet, Bucky heard footsteps. His knives were so close. Right there. Just a hands width away. A small stretch. A wiggle of his fingers; right there. But Bucky didn’t reach for them. He couldn’t. 

Instead, his world tipped. Hands held him down, pinning him in the snow and twisting his arms behind his back. Bucky grunted at the feel of his left shoulder wrenching. The old wound was painful enough, but the burn scars from his encounter with that German tank made it almost intolerable. Especially as his body betrayed him and he coughed, rattling and hard in a way that shook him against his captor’s grip. 

His mind told him it was karma for the myriad of sins he’d committed. 

When the German soldier pressed a gun to his head, Bucky gave himself over to it. The cold, the touch of steel and the pain in his chest. He waited for the bullet—the flash of pain and then the blissful nothingness that would follow. 

Karpov had told them not to fear death. Death was only a moment; an end to pain and the relinquishment of duty. People only feared death because they had hope, and a Winter Soldier had no room for such a pathetic concept. 

A Winter Soldier had nothing to lose but their commitment to the cause, and death was the only way they’d be free of obligation to the regime. 

Bucky could recite those words in multiple languages. Ready to comply. He’d told himself that over and over again, his arms shaking as he held his rifle at The Spit. He felt nothing. Had nothing. _Needed_ nothing.

Steve.

Bucky hated him in moments like this. Steve had given him something to hope for, a thing to need and love. Something to be scared of losing. Without him, Bucky would have been the good soldier. Followed orders. Not blinked at the sight of death and felt little remorse for those lost along the way. 

Steve had ruined all of that. Broken the years of conditioning and training that Karpov had used to mould Bucky, and without Steve, this all would have ended so differently. 

Steve, who lay dead in the dirty trampled snow. 

Steve, who had left him here, in this situation. And didn’t that just make Bucky the most selfish prick in existence? 

Bucky welcomed the cold press of steel against his temple, and he closed his eyes and breathed in deep, remembering the way Steve had looked months ago after parachuting into enemy lines. Who had led his men and shot Bucky fugitive glances in the pale moonlight.

Bucky wasn’t a religious man, but he hoped that there was something afterwards just so he could see Steve again. Even if it was fleetingly, as Steve went up and Bucky went down. 

“Wait!” 

The command was shouted out in German, and Bucky felt his heart sink. 

_Don’t wait. Pull the fucking trigger._ _Do it! Do it!_ He silently pleaded, commanded and begged. 

But the soldier followed orders and stopped, the gun a dead weight still pushed against Bucky’s temple. 

Bucky snarled and shifted, his struggles a weak attempt at release. He didn’t even care how; he’d take a wild scramble across the trodden field and a hail of bullets, just as he'd take a quick one to the head for being more trouble than what he was worth. 

What he was worth. That was the problem. The underlying issues and the reason his head started beating so fast when the commanding officer stalked up to him, his boots chopping into the snow and mud like a man at constant march. 

“Hello little Soldat,” the man said, his Russian worse than even Steve’s. Bucky didn’t react. Steve was dead. He could see the blood still leaking from the hole in the back of his head. Bucky stared at it, watching it move through the snow, red and then pink as the white hissed and melted at the warmth. 

Bucky remembered how warm Steve was. How he’d always heat him even in the freezing cold. He remembered stolen moments in foxholes, and pleasurably scorching hands moving over winter-cold skin. 

“You are Soviet, are you not?” The commander asked. He’d knelt down in front of Bucky, blocking the view of Steve, but Bucky only noticed once he’d finally remembered to blink. 

The soldier still holding him gave him a shake, spitting out the order to answer. Bucky wondered if they knew he spoke German. 

“A Spetsnaz, no? A…” the man struggled for the words, but Bucky understood with a sinking heart. “Winter Soldat, yes?” 

Bucky pressed his lips together tightly and looked away. What could he do? Trying to deny it would get him nowhere; the German commander was asking a rhetorical question, not searching for information. His colours were on his uniform, his rank on his shoulder and shown in the black steel of the knives at his knees. 

It only took a heartbeat, and an exhale of air for the man to move on with his broken Russian. 

“There are many things you can tell us.” 

Bucky felt his heart sink—

“He comes with us.” 

—And Bucky felt his blood run cold. 

He tried to struggle, tried to reach for a gun or antagonise the soldiers enough for them to take drastic action, but the attempts were futile. The truth was, Bucky was too weak. For once in his life, he didn’t have the skills or the strength to do what was necessary. 

Powerless, Bucky found himself moved into the back of the German truck, his wrists secured to the metal framework with chains that felt abnormally heavy. They pulled at him, weighing him down and dragging Bucky under the crashing waves of his own thoughts and fears. The walls were moving closer, marching towards him loudly, and Bucky couldn’t breathe. The floor rocked, the boards bursting at the seams as hell reached hungrily out for him. There was talking, screaming, the howl of something inhuman – the rumble of an engine – noise all around him in the silence and Bucky’s throat was raw. He didn’t cough even as he convulsed and hacked. He tasted blood in his stone-dry mouth and felt hands in his hair. His hands; the pull of chains, the throb of fingers lacking circulation. 

Steve was dead. Steve was there, stroking his hair and whispering in silence, but Steve was dead. 

Bucky couldn’t tell what was real from what was in his head. It all blurred together in darkness and light, sound and silence and emptiness that felt only pain. He was screaming, he was sure of it, yet he heard nothing, and when the world was filled with sound, his mouth was closed and his throat hoarse. 

_Bang_. Bucky flinched as light tore across his vision, the flash of gunfire burnt into his mind. He saw Steve fall, saw his blood splatter and his eyes go hollow. He saw his face hit the snow, all white and red and pale and dark in a blend of colours and contrasts that Bucky couldn’t understand. Steve was dead. Blown away in front of him, Bucky’s name the last thing on his lips and Bucky could feel the other man’s fingers carding through his hair, feel his presence by his side, warm when the Germans were cold. 

As the truck rumbled down the road, Bucky knew that he was losing his goddamn mind; maybe he’d already lost it. Teary eyes strained to see out the rifle slits of the truck, desperate for a glimpse of the life that he’d known all this time. Steve. There. Standing and smiling and promising that he’d come for him. Steve smiling and turning his back; seeking a life away from all this and happiness that Bucky could never provide. Anything. Bucky was desperate for it. 

Out there in the distance, in the haunting darkness where the trees met the shelled-out cabin, Bucky was sure he saw a flash of red hair, floating like a bloody ghost through the trees.

* * *

_Take a look to the sky just before you die  
It is the last time you will  
Blackened roar massive roar fills the crumbling sky  
Shattered goal fills his soul with a ruthless cry_

_  
Stranger now, are his eyes, to this mystery  
He hears the silence so loud  
Crack of dawn, all is gone except the will to be  
Now they see what will be, blinded eyes to see_

_For whom the bell tolls  
Time marches on_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Here we are at the end of all things. 
> 
> How do you feel? 
> 
> I know you all probably hate me right now, so I’ll keep things quick. 😉 
> 
> Thank you for joining me on this dark adventure. For those of you who made it here to the end, thank you for trusting me with your emotions and being willing to read something that wasn’t all sunshine and fluff and fairy-tale endings. It was a very challenging and interesting story to tell, and it took me to some unexpected places in terms of character development and storytelling, especially towards the end. It was very different for me to… basically take a step back from the deep intricacies and leave so many things intentionally unknown. Who did kill Pietro? Who killed Rumlow? What happens to Bucky, and how long does he survive with the Germans? What about Wanda? 
> 
> I also got to make choices with style that I've never done before; you might remember how descriptive and illustrative everything was in the first chapters. I took the time to really paint a scene in the hopes of the reader finding themselves right in the thick of it. But as the story progressed, I stripped back on the description. I went further into thoughts and clouded the setting and surrounds with the internal monologue of the characters. It was especially hard for me to do the last chapter. Normally there would be more details. More action. But it was important to see only through Bucky's eyes and have that sense of detachment. 
> 
> But anyway... enough of that. 
> 
> Please feel free to have a sob in the comments (I like to bottle tears; it’s good for my skin and dark soul), and let me know what you thought. Did you think I’d actually kill Bucky??? ~~Though it would have probably been kinder to kill him off, TBH~~. 
> 
> \---
> 
> As a quick side note, some of you may know that I’m taking commissions. I’ve had an forgotten about (but not vital) subscription bill come up (my membership to my state’s writing association) and so I’m trying to creatively pull some cash together by pimping my brain out on the internet. 😉 You can see more about what I’m offering on my [tumblr](https://minka-g.tumblr.com/). Please feel to reach out if you're interested, or, of course, I'd love any signal boosting of the Tumblr post etc, to help reach a wider audience.

**Author's Note:**

> Music is a huge part of my writing and creative process, so if you’re interested, check out [The Red Divide Youtube Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLo4vU-E4i61LIi_6kPQ4g8onC1aFJhpUw), as well as the [Lyric Booklet](https://imgur.com/a/5QcAZ2z). This fic also has a moodboard style [Tumblr here](https://reddivide.tumblr.com/), which is always being added to as I work through the editing process.


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